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A  Night  in  Acadie 


fflpjp 


<♦ 


ANIGHTINACADIE 


By  KATE  CHOPIN 


AUTHOR  OF   "BAYOU  FOLK' 


MDCCCXCVII 


\ 


Copyright,  1897,  by  Way  &  Williams. 


i.-iUary,  Umv  of 

i 

Contents, 

, 

PAGE 

?    ^L 

A  Night  in  Acadie 

1 

*  II. 

Athenaise 

39    y 

III. 

After  the  Winter 

107 

1*  IV. 

Polydore 

127 

?—  v. 

Regret 

145 

VI. 

A  Matter  of  Prejudice 

155 

VII. 

Caline     .... 

173 

VIII. 

A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie 

181 

\^~  IX. 

Neg  Creol 

199 

X. 

The  Lilhss     . 

215 

XL 

Azelie     ?       .        .        . 

229 

XII. 

Mamouche 

251 

XIII. 

A  Sentimental  Soul 

271 

XIV. 

Dead  Men's  Shoes 

295 

XV. 

At  Cheniere  Caminada 

315 

XVI. 

Odalie  Misses  Mass 

341 

XVII. 

Cavanelle 

355 

XVIII. 

Tante  Cat'rinette 

369 

/  XIX. 

A  Respectable  Woman 

389  */ 

XX. 

Ripe  Figs 

399 

XXI. 

Ozeme's  Holiday   . 

403 

J^- 

CO 

X 


A  Night  in  Acadie 


A  Night  in  Acadie 

THERE  was  nothing  to  do  on  the  planta- 
tion so  Telesphore,  having  a  few  dollars 
in  his  pocket,  thought  he  would  go 
down  and  spend  Sunday  in  the  vicinity  of 
Marksville. 

There  was  really  nothing  more  to  do  in  the 
vicinity  of  Marksville  than  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  his  own  small  farm;  but  Elvina  would 
not  be  down  there,  nor  Amaranthe,  nor  any 
of  Ma'me  Valtour's  daughters  to  harass  him 
with  doubt,  to  torture  him  with  indecision,  to 
turn  his  very  soul  into  a  weather-cock  for  love's 
fair  winds  to  play  with. 

Telesphore  at  twenty-eight  had  long  felt  the 
need  of  a  wife.  His  home  without  one  was 
like  an  empty  temple  in  which  there  is  no  altar, 
mrofferlng.  So  keenly  did  he  realize  the  nec- 
essity that  a  dozen  times  at  least  during  the 
past  year  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  propos- 
ing marriage  to  almost  as  many  different  young 


2  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

women  of  the  neighborhood.^  Therein  lay  the 
"^mic^ty7theTfduble  which  Telesphore  experi- 
enced in  making  up  his  mind.  Elvina's  eyes 
were  beautiful  and  had  often  tempted  him  to 
the  verge  of  a  declaration.  But  her  skin  was 
over  swarthy  for  a  wife;  and  her  movements 
were  slow  and  heavy;  he  doubted  she  had  In- 
dian blood,  and  we  all  know  what  Indian  blood 
is  for  treachery.  Amaranthe  presented  in  her 
person  none  of  these  obstacles  to  matrimony. 
If  her  eyes  were  not  so  handsome  as  Elvina's, 
her  skin  was  fine,  and  being  slender  to  a  fault, 
she  moved  swiftly  about  her  household  affairs, 
or  when  she  walked  the  country  lanes  in  going 
to  church  or  to  the  store.  Telesphore  had  once 
reached  the  point  of  believing  that  Amaranthe 
would  make  him  an  excellent  wife.  He  had 
even  started  out  one  day  with  the  intention  of 
declaring  himself,  when,  as  the  god  of  chance 
would  have  it,  Ma'me  Valtour  espied  him  pass- 
ing in  the  road  and  enticed  him  to  enter  and 
partake  of  coffee  and  "baignes."  He  would 
have  been  a  man  of  stone  to  have  resisted,  or 
to  have  remained  insensible  to  the  charms  and 
accomplishments  of  the  Valtour  girls.  Finally 
there  was  Ganache's  widow,  seductive   rather 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  3 

than  handsome,  with  a  good  bit  of  property  in 
her  own  right.  While  Telesphore  was  con- 
sidering his  chances  of  happiness  or  even  suc- 
cess with  Ganache's  widow,  she  married  a 
younger  man. 

From  these  embarrassing  conditions,  Teles- 
phore sometimes  felt  himself  forced  to  escape; 
to  change  his  environment  for  a  day  or  two 
and  thereby  gain  a  few  new  insights  by  shift- 
ing his  point  of  view. 

It  was  Saturday  morning  that  he  decided  to 
spend  Sunday  in  the  vicinity  of  Marksville,  and 
the  same  afternoon  found  him  waiting  at  the 
country  station  for  the  south-bound  train. 

He  was  a  robust  young  fellow  with  good, 
strong  features  and  a  somewhat  determined  ex- 
pression— despite  his  vacillations  in  the  choice 
of  a  wife.  He  was  dressed  rather  carefully  in 
navy-blue  "store  clothes"  that  fitted  well  be- 
cause anything  would  have  fitted  Telesphore. 
He  had  been  freshly  shaved  and  trimmed  and 
carried  an  umbrella.  He  wore — a  little  tilted 
over  one  eye — a  straw  hat  in  preference  to  the 
conventional  gray  felt;  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  his  uncle  Telesphore  would  have 
worn  a  felt,  and  a  battered  one  at  that.     His 


4  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

whole  conduct  of  life  had  been  planned  on  lines 
in  direct  contradistinction  to  those  of  his  uncle 
Telesphore,  whom  he  was  thought  in  early 
youth  to  greatly  resemble.  The  elder  Teles- 
phore could  not  read  nor  write,  therefore  the 
younger  had  made  it  the  object  of  his  exist- 
ence to  acquire  these  accomplishments.  The 
uncle  pursued  the  avocations  of  hunting,  fish- 
ing and  moss-picking;  employments  which  the 
nephew  held  in  detestation.  And  as  for  carry- 
ing an  umbrella,  "None"  Telesphore  would 
have  walked  the  length  of  the  parish  in  a  de- 
luge before  he  would  have  so  much  as  thought 
of  one.  In  short,  Telesphore,  by  advisedly 
shaping  his  course  in  direct  opposition  to  that 
of  his  uncle,  managed  to  lead  a  rather  orderly, 
industrious,  and  respectable  existence. 

It  was  a  little  warm  for  April  but  the  car 
was  not  uncomfortably  crowded  and  Teles- 
phore was  fortunate  enough  to  secure  the  last 
available  window-seat  on  the  shady  side.  He 
was  not  too  familiar  with  railway  travel,  his  ex- 
peditions being  usually  made  on  horse-back  or 
in  a  buggy,  and  the  short  trip  promised  to  in- 
terest him. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  5 

There  was  no  one  present  whom  he  knew 
well  enough  to  speak  to:  the  district  attorney, 
whom  he  knew  by  sight,  a  French  priest  from 
Natchitoches  and  a  few  faces  that  were  familiar 
only  because  they  were  native. 

But  he  did  not  greatly  care  to  speak  to  any- 
one. There  was  a  fair  stand  of  cotton  and 
corn  in  the  fields  and  Telesphore  gathered  sat- 
isfaction in  silent  contemplation  of  the  crops, 
comparing  them  with  his  own. 

It  was  toward  the  close  of  his  journey  that 
a  young  girl  boarded  the  train.  There  had 
been  girls  getting  on  and  off  at  intervals  and 
it  was  perhaps  because  of  the  bustle  attend- 
ing her  arrival  that  this  one  attracted  Teles- 
phore's  attention. 

She  called  good-bye  to  her  father  from  the 
platform  and  waved  good-bye  to  him  through 
the  dusty,  sun-lit  window  pane  after  entering, 
for  she  was  compelled  to  seat  herself  on  the 
sunny  side.  She  seemed  inwardly  excited  and 
preoccupied  save  for  the  attention  which  she 
lavished  upon  a  large  parcel  that  she  carried 
religiously  and  laid  reverentially  down  upon 
the  seat  before  her. 


6  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

She  was  neither  tall  nor  short,  nor  stout  nor 
slender;  nor  was  she  beautiful,  nor  was  she 
plain.  She  wore  a  figured  lawn,  cut  a  little  low 
in  the  back,  that  exposed  a  round,  soft  nuque 
with  a  few  little  clinging  circlets  of  soft,  brown 
hair.  Her  hat  was  of  white  straw,  cocked  up 
on  the  side  with  a  bunch  of  pansies,  and  she 
wore  gray  lisle-thread  gloves.  The  girl  seemed 
very  warm  and  kept  mopping  her  face.  She 
vainly  sought  her  fan,  then  she  fanned  herself 
with  her  handkerchief,  and  finally  made  an  at- 
tempt to  open  the  window.  She  might  as  well 
have  tried  to  move  the  banks  of  Red  river. 

Telesphore  had  been  unconsciously  watch- 
ing her  the  whole  time  and  perceiving  her 
straight  he  arose  and  went  to  her  assistance. 
But  the  window  could  not  be  opened. 
When  he  had  grown  red  in  the  face  and 
wasted  an  amount  of  energy  that  would 
have  driven  the  plow  for  a  day,  he  offered 
her  his  seat  on  the  shady  side.  She  demurred 
— there  would  be  no  room  for  the  bundle.  He 
suggested  that  the  bundle  be  left  where  it  was 
and  agreed  to  assist  her  in  keeping  an  eye 
upon  it.  She  accepted  Telesphore's  place  at  the 
shady  window  and  he  seated  himself  beside  her. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  7 

He  wondered  if  she  would  speak  to  him. 
He  feared  she  might  have  mistaken  him  for  a 
Western  drummer,  in  which  event  he  knew  that 
she  would  not;  for  the  women  of  the  country 
caution  their  daughters  against  speaking  to 
strangers  on  the  trains.  But  the  girl  was  not 
one  to  mistake  an  Acadian  farmer  for  a  West- 
ern traveling  man.  She  was  not  born  in 
Avoyelles  parish  for  nothing. 

"I  wouldn'  want  anything  to  happen  to  it," 
she  said. 

"It's  all  right  w'ere  it  is,"  he  assured  her, 
following  the  direction  of  her  glance,  that  was 
fastened  upon  the  bundle. 

"The  las'  time  I  came  over  to  Foche's  ball 
I  got  caught  in  the  rain  on  my  way  up  to  my 
cousin's  house,  an'  my  dress!  JJ  vous  reponds! 
it  was  a  sight.  Li'le  mo',  I  would  miss  the  ball. 
As  it  was,  the  dress  looked  like  I'd  wo'  it  weeks 
without  doin'-up." 

"No  fear  of  rain  to-day,"  he  reassured  her, 
glancing  out  at  the  sky,  "but  you  can  have 
my  umbrella  if  it  does  rain;  you  jus'  as  well 
take  it  as  not." 

"Oh,  no!  I  wrap'  the  dress  roun'  in  toile- 
ciree  this  time.     You  goin'  to  Foche's  ball? 


8  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

Didn'  I  meet  you  once  yonda  on  Bayou  Der- 
banne?  Looks  like  I  know  yo'  face.  You 
mus'  come  fom  Natchitoches  pa'ish." 

"My  cousins,  the  Fedeau  family,  live  yonda. 
Me,  I  live  on  my  own  place  in  Rapides  since 
'92." 

He  wondered  if  she  would  follow  up  her  in- 
quiry relative  to  Foche's  ball.  If  she  did,  he 
was  ready  with  an  answer,  for  he  had  decided 
to  go  to  the  ball.  But  her  thoughts  evidently 
wandered  from  the  subject  and  were  oc- 
cupied with  matters  that  did  not  concern  him, 
for  she  turned  away  and  gazed  silently  out  of 
the  window. 

It  was  not  a  village;  it  was  not  even  a  hamlet 
at  which  they  descended.  The  station  was  set 
down  upon  the  edge  of  a  cotton  field.  Near 
at  hand  was  the  post  office  and  store;  there 
was  a  section  house;  there  were  a  few  cabins 
at  wide  intervals,  and  one  in  the  distance 
the  girl  informed  him  was  the  home  of  her 
cousin,  Jules  Trodon.  There  lay  a  good  bit 
of  road  before  them  and  she  did  not  hesitate  to 
accept  Telesphore's  offer  to  bear  her  bundle 
on  the  way. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  9 

She  carried  herself  boldly  and  stepped  out 
freely  and  easily,  like  a  negress.  There  was 
an  absence  nfrasprvp  in  hpr  maimer;  yrt  tljfjff 
was  no  lack  of  womanliness.  She  had  the 
air  of  a  young  person  accustomed  to  decide 
for  herself  and  for  those  about  her. 

"You  said  yo'  name  was  Fedeau?"  she 
asked,  looking  squarely  at  Telesphore.  Her 
eyes  were  penetrating — not  sharply  penetrat- 
ing, but  earnest  and  dark,  and  a  little  search- 
ing. He  noticed  that  they  were  handsome 
eyes;  not  so  large  as  Elvina's,  but  finer  in 
their  expression.  They  started  to  walk  down 
the  track  before  turning  into  the  lane  leading 
to  Trodon's  house.  The  sun  was  sinking  and 
the  air  was  fresh  and  invigorating  by  contrast 
with  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  the  train. 

"You  said  yo'  name  was  Fedeau?"  she 
asked. 

"No,"  he  returned.  "My  name  is  Teles- 
phore Baquette." 

"An*  my  name;  it's  Za'ida  Trodon.  It  looks 
like  you  ought  to  know  me;  I  don*  know  w'y." 

"It  looks  that  way  to  me,  somehow,"  he  re- 
plied.   They  were  satisfied  to  recognize   this 


io  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

feeling — almost  conviction — of  pre-acquaint- 
ance,  without  trying  to  penetrate  its  cause. 

By  the  time  they  reached  Trodon's  house 
he  knew  that  she  lived  over  on  Bayou  de  Glaize 
with  her  parents  and  a  number  of  younger 
brothers  and  sisters.  It  was  rather  dull  where 
they  lived  and  she  often  came  to  lend  a  hand 
when  her  cousin's  wife  got  tangled  in  domestic 
complications ;  or,  as  she  was  doing  now,  when 
Foche's  Saturday  ball  promised  to  be  unusu- 
ally important  and  brilliant.  There  would  be 
people  there  even  from  Marksville,  she 
thought;  there  were  often  gentlemen  from 
Alexandria.  Telesphore  was  as  unreserved  as 
she,  and  they  appeared  like  old  acquaintances 
when  they  reached  Trodon's  gate. 

Trodon's  wife  was  standing  on  the  gallery 
with  a  baby  in  her  arms,  watching  for  Zaida; 
and  four  little  bare-footed  children  were  sitting 
in  a  row  on  the  step,  also  waiting;  but  ter- 
rified and  struck  motionless  and  dumb  at  sight 
of  a  stranger.  He  opened  the  gate  for  the  girl 
but  stayed  outside  himself.  Zaida  presented 
him  formally  to  her  cousin's  wife,  who  insisted 
upon  his  entering. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  n 

"Ah,  b'en,  pour  ga!  you  got  to  come  in. 
It's  any  sense  you  goin'  to  walk  yonda  to 
Foche's!  Ti  Jules,  run  call  yo'  pa."  As  if  Ti 
Jules  could  have  run  or  walked  even,  or  moved 
a  muscle! 

But  Telesphore  was  firm.  He  drew  forth  his 
silver  watch  and  looked  at  it  in  a  business-like 
fashion.  He  always  carried  a  watch;  his  uncle 
Telesphore  always  told  the  time  by  the  sun,  or 
by  instinct,  like  an  animal.  He  was  quite  de- 
termined to  walk  on  to  Foche's,  a  couple  of 
miles  away,  where  he  expected  to  secure  sup- 
per and  a  lodging,  as  well  as  the  pleasing  dis- 
traction of  the  ball. 

"Well,  I  reckon  I  see  you  all  to-night,"  he 
uttered  in  cheerful  anticipation  as  he  moved 
away. 

"You'll  see  Zaida;  yes,  an'  Jules,"  called  out 
Trodon's  wife  good-humoredly.  "Me,  I  got 
no  time  to  fool  with  balls,  J'  vous  reponds! 
with  all  them  chil'ren." 

"He's  good-lookin' ;  yes,"  she  exclaimed, 
when  Telesphore  was  out  of  ear-shot.  "An' 
dressed!  it's  like  a  prince.  I  didn'  know  you 
knew  any  Baquettes,  you,  Zaida." 


12  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

"It's  strange  you  don'  know  'em  yo'  se'f, 
cousine."  Well,  there  had  been  no  question 
from  Ma'me  Trodon,  so  why  should  there  be 
an  answer  from  Zaida? 

Telesphore  wondered  as  he  walked  why  he 
had  not  accepted  the  invitation  to  enter.  He 
was  not  regretting  it;  he  was  simply  wondering 
what  could  have  induced  him  to  decline.  For 
it  surely  would  have  been  agreeable  to  sit  there 
on  the  gallery  waiting  while  Zaida  prepared 
herself  for  the  dance;  to  have  partaken  of  sup- 
per with  the  family  and  afterward  accompanied 
them  to  Foche's.  The  whole  situation  was  so 
novel,  and  had  presented  itself  so  unexpectedly 
that  Telesphore  wished  in  reality  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  it,  accustomed  to  it.  He  wanted 
to  view  it  from  this  side  and  that  in  compari- 
son with  other,  familiar  situations.  The  girl 
had  impressed  him — affected  him  in  some  way; 
but  in  some  new,  unusual  way,  not  as  the  oth- 
ers always  had.  He  could  not  recall  details  of 
her  personality  as  he  could  recall  such  details 
of  Amaranthe  or  the  Valtours,  of  any  of  them. 
When  Telesphore  tried  to  think  of  her  he  could 
not  think  at  all.  He  seemed  to  have  absorbed 
her  in  some  way  and  his  brain  was  not  so 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  13 

occupied  with  her  as  his  senses  were.  At  that 
moment  he  was  looking  forward  to  the  ball; 
there  was  no  doubt  about  that.  Afterwards,  he 
did  not  know  what  he  would  look  forward  to; 
he  did  not  care;  afterward  made  no  difference. 
If  he  had  expected  the  crash  of  doom  to  come 
after  the  dance  at  Foche's,  he  would  only 
have  smiled  in  his  thankfulness  that  it  was  not 
to  come  before. 

There  was  the  same  scene  every  Saturday  at 
Foche's !  A  scene  to  have  aroused  the  guardi- 
ans of  the  peace  in  a  locality  where  such  com- 
modities abound.  And  all  on  account  of  the 
mammoth  pot  of  gumbo  that  bubbled,  bub- 
bled, bubbled  out  in  the  open  air.  Foche  in 
shirt-sleeves,  fat,  red  and  enraged,  swore 
and  reviled,  and  stormed  at  old  black  Doute 
for  her  extravagance.  He  called  her  every 
kind  of  a  name  of  every  kind  of  animal  that 
suggested  itself  to  his  lurid  imagination.  And 
every  fresh  invective  that  he  fired  at  her  she 
hurled  it  back  at  him  while  into  the  pot  went 
the  chickens  and  the  pans-full  of  minced  ham, 
and  the  fists-full  of  onion  and  sage  and  piment 
rouge  and  piment  vert.     If  he  wanted  her  to 


14  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

cook  for  pigs  he  had  only  to  say  so.  She 
knew  how  to  cook  for  pigs  and  she  knew 
how  to  cook  for  people  of  les  Avoyelles. 

The  gumbo  smelled  good,  and  Telesphore 
would  have  liked  a  taste  of  it.  Doute  was 
dragging  from  the  fire  a  stick  of  wood  that 
Foche  had  officiously  thrust  beneath  the  sim- 
mering pot,  and  she  muttered  as  she  hurled  it 
smouldering  to  one  side: 

"Vaux  mieux  y  s'mele  ces  affairs,  lui;  si 
non!"  But  she  was  all  courtesy  as  she  dipped 
a  steaming  plate  for  Telesphore;  though  she 
assured  him  it  would  not  be  fit  for  a  Christian 
or  a  gentleman  to  taste  till  midnight. 

Telesphore  having  brushed,  "spruced"  and 
refreshed  himself,  strolled  about,  taking  a  view 
of  the  surroundings.  The  house,  big,  bulky 
and  weather-beaten,  consisted  chiefly  of  gal- 
leries in  every  stage  of  decrepitude  and  dilapi- 
dation. There  were  a  few  chinaberry  trees 
and  a  spreading  live  oak  in  the  yard.  Along 
the  edge  of  the  fence,  a  good  distance  away, 
was  a  line  of  gnarled  and  distorted  mulberry 
trees;  and  it  was  there,  out  in  the  road,  that 
the  people  who  came  to  the  ball  tied  their 
ponies,  their  wagons  and  carts. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  15 

Dusk  was  beginning  to  fall  and  Telesphore, 
looking  out  across  the  prairie,  could  see  them 
coming  from  all  directions.  The  little  Creole 
ponies  galloping  in  a  line  looked  like  hobby 
horses  in  the  faint  distance;  the  mule-carts 
were  like  toy  wagons.  Zalda  might  be  among 
those  people  approaching,  flying,  crawling 
ahead  of  the  darkness  that  was  creeping  out  of 
the  far  wood.  He  hoped  so,  but  he  did  not 
believe  so;  she  would  hardly  have  had  time  to 
dress. 

Foche  was  noisily  lighting  lamps,  with  the 
assistance  of  an  inoffensive  mulatto  boy  whom 
he  intended  in  the  morning  to  butcher,  to 
cut  into  sections,  to  pack  and  salt  down  in  a 
barrel,  like  the  Colfax  woman  did  to  her  old 
husband — a  fitting  destiny  for  so  stupid  a  pig 
as  the  mulatto  boy.  The  negro  musicians  had 
arrived:  two  fiddlers  and  an  accordion  player, 
and  they  were  drinking  whiskey  from  a  black 
quart  bottle  which  was  passed  socially  from 
one  to  the  other.  The  musicians  were  really 
never  at  their  best  till  the  quart  bottle  had 
been  consumed. 

The  girls  who  came  in  wagons  and  on 
ponies   from  a  distance  wore,  for   the    most 


1 6  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

part,  calico  dresses  and  sun-bonnets.  Their 
finery  they  brought  along  in  pillow-slips  or 
pinned  up  in  sheets  and  towels.  With  these 
they  at  once  retired  to  an  upper  room;  later  to 
appear  be-ribboned  and  be-furbelowed;  their 
faces  masked  with  starch  powder,  but  never  a 
touch  of  rouge. 

Most  of  the  guests  had  assembled  when 
Zai'da  arrived — "dashed  up"  would  better  ex- 
press her  coming — in  an  open,  two-seated 
buckboard,  with  her  cousin  Jules  driving.  He 
reined  the  pony  suddenly  and  viciously  before 
the  time-eaten  front  steps,  in  order  to  produce 
an  impression  upon  those  who  were  gathered 
around.  Most  of  the  men  had  halted  their 
vehicles  outside  and  permitted  their  women 
folk  to  walk  up  from  the  mulberry  trees. 

But  the  real,  the  stunning  effect  was  pro- 
duced when  Zaida  stepped  upon  the  gallery 
and  threw  aside  her  light  shawl  in  the  full  glare 
of  half  a  dozen  kerosene  lamps.  She  was  white 
from  head  to  foot — literally,  for  her  slippers 
even  were  white.  No  one  would  have  believed, 
let  alone  suspected  that  they  were  a  pair  of  old 
black  ones  which  she  had  covered  with  pieces 
of  her  first  communion  sash.    There  is  no  de- 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  17 

scribing  her  dress,  it  was  fluffy,  like  a  fresh 
powder-puff,  and  stood  out.  No  wonder  she 
had  handled  it  so  reverentially!  Her  white  fan 
was  covered  with  spangles  that  she  herself  had 
sewed  all  over  it;  and  in  her  belt  and  in  her 
brown  hair  were  thrust  small  sprays  of  orange 
blossom. 

Two  men  leaning  against  the  railing  uttered 
long  whistles  expressive  equally  of  wonder  and 
admiration. 

"Tiens!  t'es  pareille  comme  ain  mariee, 
Zaida;"  cried  out  a  lady  with  a  baby  in  her 
arms.  Some  young  women  tittered  and  Zaida 
fanned  herself.  The  women's  voices  were  al- 
most without  exception  shrill  and  piercing;  the 
men's,  soft  and  low-pitched. 

The  girl  turned  to  Telesphore,  as  to  an  old 
and  valued  friend: 

"Tiens!  c'est  vous?"  He  had  hesitated 
at  first  to  approach,  but  at  this  friendly  sign 
of  recognition  he  drew  eagerly  forward  and 
held  out  his  hand.  The  men  looked  at  him 
suspiciously,  inwardly  resenting  his  stylish  ap- 
pearance, which  they  considered  instrusive,  of- 
fensive and  demoralizing. 


1 8  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

How  Zaida's  eyes  sparkled  now !  What  very 
pretty  teeth  Zaida  had  when  she  laughed,  and 
what  a  mouth!  Her  lips  were  a  revelation,  a 
promise;  something  to  carry  away  and  remem- 
ber in  the  night  and  grow  hungry  thinking  of 
next  day.  Strictly  speaking,  they  may  not  have 
been  quite  all  that;  but  in  any  event,  that  is  the 
way  Telesphore  thought  about  them.  He  be- 
gan to  take  account  of  her  appearance:  her 
nose,  her  eyes,  her  hair.  And  when  she  left 
him  to  go  in  and  dance  her  first  dance  with 
cousin  Jules,  he  leaned  up  against  a  post  and 
thought  of  them :  nose,  eyes,  hair,  ears,  lips  and 
round,  soft  throat. 

Later  it  was  like  Bedlam. 

The  musicians  had  warmed  up  and  were 
scraping  away  indoors  and  calling  the  figures. 
Feet  were  pounding  through  the  dance;  dust 
was  flying.  The  women's  voices  were  piped 
high  and  mingled  discordantly,  like  the  con- 
fused, shrill  clatter  of  waking  birds,  while  the 
men  laughed  boisterously.  But  if  some  one  had 
only  thought  of  gagging  Foche,  there  would 
have  been  less  noise.  His  good  humor  per- 
meated everywhere,  like  an  atmosphere.  He 
was  louder  than  all  the  noise;  he  was  more 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  19 

visible  than  the  dust.  He  called  the  young 
mulatto  (destined  for  the  knife)  "my  boy"  and 
sent  him  flying  hither  and  thither.  He  beamed 
upon  Doute  as  he  tasted  the  gumbo  and  con- 
gratulated her:  "C'est  toi  qui  s'y  connais,  ma 
fille!  'ere  tonnerre!" 

Telesphore  danced  with  Zaida  and  then  he 
leaned  out  against  the  post;  then  he  danced 
with  Zaida,  and  then  he  leaned  against  the 
post.  The  mothers  of  the  other  girls  decided 
that  he  had  the  manners  of  a  pig. 

It  was  time  to  dance  again  with  Zaida  and 
he  went  in  search  of  her.  He  was  carrying 
her  shawl,  which  she  had  given  him  to  hold. 

"Wat  time  it  is?"  she  asked  him  when  he 
had  found  and  secured  her.  They  were  under 
one  of  the  kerosene  lamps  on  the  front  gallery 
and  he  drew  forth  his  silver  watch.  She 
seemed  to  be  still  laboring  under  some  sup- 
pressed excitement  that  he  had  noticed  before. 

"It's  fo'teen  minutes  pas'  twelve,"  he  told 
her  exactly. 

"I  wish  you'd  fine  out  w'ere  Jules  is.  Go 
look  yonda  in  the  card-room  if  he's  there,  an' 
come  tell  me."  Jules  had  danced  with  all  the 
prettiest  girls.     She  knew  it  was  his  custom 


20  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

after  accomplishing  this  agreeable  feat,  to  re- 
tire to  the  card-room. 

"You'll  wait  yere  till  I  come  back?"  he 
asked. 

"I'll  wait  yere;  you  go  on."  She  waited  but 
drew  back  a  little  into  the  shadow.  Telesphore 
lost  no  time. 

"Yes,  he's  yonda  playin'  cards  with  Foche 
an'  some  others  I  don'  know,"  he  reported 
when  he  had  discovered  her  in  the  shadow. 
There  had  been  a  spasm  of  alarm  when  he  did 
not  at  once  see  her  where  he  had  left  her  under 
the  lamp. 

"Does  he  look — look  like  he's  fixed  yonda 
fo'  good?" 

"He's  got  his  coat  off.  Looks  like  he's  fixed 
pretty  comf'table  fo'  the  nex'  hour  or  two." 

"Gi'  me  my  shawl." 

"You  cole?"  offering  to  put  it  around  her. 

"No,  I  ain't  cole."  She  drew  the  shawl  about 
her  shoulders  and  turned. as  if  to  leave  him. 
But  a  sudden  generous  impulse  seemed  to 
move  her,  and  she  added: 

"Come  along  yonda  with  me." 

They  descended  the  few  rickety  steps  that 
led  down  to  the  yard.    He  followed  rather  than 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  21 

accompanied  her  across  the  beaten  and  tramp- 
led sward.  Those  who  saw  them  thought  they 
had  gone  out  to  take  the  air.  The  beams  of 
light  that  slanted  out  from  the  house  were  fit- 
ful and  uncertain,  deepening  the  shadows.  The 
embers  under  the  empty  gumbo-pot  glared  red 
in  the  darkness.  There  was  a  sound  of  quiet 
voices  coming  from  under  the  trees. 

Zaida,  closely  accompanied  by  Telesphore, 
went  out  where  the  vehicles  and  horses  were 
fastened  to  the  fence.  She  stepped  care- 
fully and  held  up  her  skirts  as  if  dreading  the 
least  speck  of  dew  or  of  dust. 

"Unhitch  Jules'  ho'se  an'  buggy  there  an* 
turn  'em  'roun'  this  way,  please."  He  did  as 
instructed,  first  backing  the  pony,  then  lead- 
ing it  out  to  where  she  stood  in  the  half-made 
road. 

"You  goin'  home?"  he  asked  her,  "betta  let 
me  water  the  pony.". 

"Neva  mine."  She  mounted  and  seating 
herself  grasped  the  reins.  "No,  I  aint  goin' 
home,"  she  added.  He,  too,  was  holding  the 
reins  gathered  in  one  hand  across  the  pony's 
back. 


.22  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

"Were  you  gain'?"  he  demanded. 

"Neva  you  mine  w'ere  I'm  goin'." 

"You  ain't  goin'  anyw'ere  this  time  o'  night 
by  yo'se'f?" 

"Wat  you  reckon  I'm  'fraid  of?"  she 
laughed.  "Turn  loose  that  ho'se,"  at  the  same 
time  urging  the  animal  forward.  The  little 
brute  started  away  with  a  bound  and  Teles- 
phore,  also  with  a  bound,  sprang  into  the  buck- 
board  and  seated  himself  beside  Zaida. 

"You  ain't  goin'  anyw'ere  this  time  o'  night 
by  yo'se'f."  It  was  not  a  question  now,  but  an 
assertion,  and  there  was  no  denying  it.  There 
was  even  no  disputing  it,  and  Zaida  recogniz- 
ing the  fact  drove  on  in  silence. 

There  is  no  animal  that  moves  so  swiftly 
across  a  'Cadian  prairie  as  the  little  Creole 
pony.  This  one  did  not  run  nor  trot;  he 
seemed  to  reach  out  in  galloping  bounds.  The 
buckboard  creaked,  bounced,  jolted  and 
swayed.  Zaida  clutched  at  her  shawl  while 
Telesphore  drew  his  straw  hat  further  down 
over  his  right  eye  and  offered  to  drive.  But  he 
did  not  know  the  road  and  she  would  not  let 
him.    They  had  soon  reached  the  woods. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  23 

If  there  is  any  animal  that  can  creep  more 
slowly  through  a  wooded  road  than  the  little 
Creole  pony,  that  animal  has  not  yet  been  dis- 
covered in  Acadie.  This  particular  animal 
seemed  to  be  appalled  by  the  darkness  of  the 
forest  and  filled  with  dejection.  His  head 
drooped  and  he  lifted  his  feet  as  if  each  hoof 
were  weighted  with  a  thousand  pounds  of  lead. 
Any  one  unacquainted  with  the  peculiarities  of 
the  breed  would  sometimes  have  fancied  that 
he  was  standing  still.  But  Zaida  and  Teles- 
phore  knew  better.  Zaida  uttered  a  deep  sigh 
as  she  slackened  her  hold  on  the  reins  and 
Telesphore,  lifting  his  hat,  let  it  swing  from 
the  back  of  his  head. 

"How  you  don'  ask  me  w'ere  I'm  goin'?" 
she  said  finally.  These  were  the  first  words 
she  had  spoken  since  refusing  his  offer  to  drive. 

"Oh,  it  don*  make  any  diff'ence  w'ere  you 
goin'." 

"Then  if  it  don'  make  any  diff'ence  w'ere 
I'm  goin',  I  jus'  as  well  tell  you."  She  hesi- 
tated, however.  He  seemed  to  have  no  curi- 
osity and  did  not  urge  her. 

"I'm  goin'  to  get  married,"  she  said. 


24  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

He  uttered  some  kind  of  an  exclamation;  it 
was  nothing  articulate — more  like  the  tone  of 
an  animal  that  gets  a  sudden  knife  thrust  And 
now  he  felt  how  dark  the  forest  was.  An  in- 
stant before  it  had  seemed  a  sweet,  black  para- 
dise; better  than  any  heaven  he  had  ever 
heard  of. 

"Wy  can't  you  get  married  at  home?"  This 
was  not  the  first  thing  that  occurred  to  him  to 
say,  but  this  was  the  first  thing  he  said. 

"Ah,  b'en  oui!  with  perfec'  mules  fo'  a  father 
an'  mother!  it's  good  enough  to  talk." 

"W'y  eouldn'  he  come  an'  get  you?  Wat 
kine  of  a  scound'el  is  that  to  let  you  go 
through  the  woods  at  night  by  yo'se'f?" 

"You  betta  Wait  till  you  know  who  you 
talkin'  about.  He  didn'  come  an'  get  me  be- 
cause he  knows  I  ain't  'fraid;  an'  because  he's 
got  too  much  pride  to  ride  in  Jules  Trodon's 
buckboard  afta  he  done  been  put  out  o'  Jules 
Trodon's  house." 

"Wat's  his  name  an'  w'ere  you  goin'  to  fine 
imr 

"Yonda  on  the  other  side  the  woods  up  at 
ole  Wat  Gibson's — a  kine  of  justice  the  peace 
or  something.    Anyhow  he's  goin'  to  marry  us. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  25 

An'  afta  we  done  married  those  tetes-de-mulets 
yonda  on  bayou  de  Glaize  can  say  w'at  they 
want." 

"Wat's  his  name?" 

"Andre  Pascal." 

The  name  meant  nothing  to  Telesphore.  For 
all  he  knew,  Andre  Pascal  might  be  one  of  the 
shining  lights  of  Avoyelles;  but  he  doubted  it. 

"You  betta  turn  'roun',"  he  said.  It  was  an 
unselfish  impulse  that  prompted  the  sugges- 
tion. It  was  the  thought  of  this  girl  married 
to  a  man  whom  even  Jules  Trodon  would  not 
suffer  to  enter  his  house. 

"I  done  give  my  word,"  she  answered. 

"Wat's  the  matta  with  'im?  W'y  don't  yo' 
father  and  mother  want  you  to  marry  'im?" 

"W'y?  Because  it's  always  the  same  tune! 
W'en_ajnaan^s-.dawiL  eve'ybody's  got  stones  to 
throw  at  'im.  They  say  he's  lazy.  A  man  that 
wilt  walk  from  St.  Landry  plumb  to  Rapides 
lookin'  fo'  work;  an'  they  call  that  lazy!  Then, 
somebody's  been  spreadin'  yonda  on  the 
Bayou  that  he  drinks.  I  don'  b'lieve  it.  I 
neva  saw  'im  drinkin',  me.  Anyway,  he  won't 
drink  afta  he's  married  to  me;  he's  too  fon' 


26  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

of  me  fo'  that.  He  say  he'll  blow  out  his 
brains  if  I  don'  marry  'im." 

"I  reckon  you  betta  turn  roun'." 

"No,  I  done  give  my  word."  And  they  went 
creeping  on  through  the  woods  in  silence. 

"Wat  time  is  it?"  she  asked  after  an  inter- 
val.   He  lit  a  match  and  looked  at  his  watch. 

"It's  quarta  to  one.    Wat  time  did  he  say?" 

"I  tole  'im  I'd  come  about  one  o'clock.  I 
knew  that  was  a  good  time  to  get  away  f'om 
the  ball." 

She  would  have  hurried  a  little  but  the  pony 
could  not  be  induced  to  do  so.  He  dragged 
himself,  seemingly  ready  at  any  moment  to 
give  up  the  breath  of  life.  But  once  out  of  the 
woods  he  made  up  for  lost  time.  They  were 
on  the  open  prairie  again,  and  he  fairly  ripped 
the  air ;  some  flying  demon  must  have  changed 
skins  with  him. 

It  was  a  few  minutes  of  one  o'clock  when 
they  drew  up  before  Wat  Gibson's  house.  It 
was  not  much  more  than  a  rude  shelter,  and 
in  the  dim  starlight  it  seemed  isolated,  as  if 
standing  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  black,  far- 
reaching  prairie.  As  ^they  halted  at  the  gate 
a  dog  within  set  up  a  furious  barking;  and 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  27 

an  old  negro  who  had  been  smoking  his  pipe 
at  that  ghostly  hour,  advanced  toward  them 
from  the  shelter  of  the  gallery.  Telesphore 
descended  and  helped  his  companion  to  alight. 

"We  want  to  see  Mr.  Gibson,"  spoke  up 
Zaida.  The  old  fellow  had  already  opened  the 
gate.    There  was  no  light  in  the  house. 

"Marse  Gibson,  he  yonda  to  ole  Mr.  Bodel's 
playin'  kairds.  But  he  neva'  stay  atter  one 
o'clock.  Come  in,  ma'am;  come  in,  suh;  walk 
right  'long  in."  He  had  drawn  his  own  con- 
clusions to  explain  their  appearance.  They 
stood  upon  the  narrow  porch  waiting  while  he 
went  inside  to  light  the  lamp. 

Although  the  house  was  small,  as  it  com- 
prised but  one  room,  that  room  was  compara- 
tively a  large  one.  It  looked  to  Telesphore 
and  Zaida  very  large  and  gloomy  when  they 
entered  it.  The  lamp  was  on  a  table  that  stood 
against  the  wall,  and  that  held  further  a  rusty 
looking  ink  bottle,  a  pen  and  an  old  blank 
book.  A  narrow  bed  was  off  in  the  corner. 
The  brick  chimney  extended  into  the  room 
and  formed  a  ledge  that  served  as  mantel  shelf. 
From  the  big,  low-hanging  rafters  swung  an 
assortment  of  fishing  tackle,  a  gun,  some  dis- 


28  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

carded  articles  of  clothing  and  a  string  of  red 
peppers.  The  boards  of  the  floor  were  broad, 
rough  and  loosely  joined  together. 

Telesphore  and  Zaida  seated  themselves  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  table  and  the  negro  went 
out  to  the  wood  pile  to  gather  chips  and  pieces 
of  bois-gras  with  which  to  kindle  a  small  fire. 

It  was  a  little  chilly;  he  supposed  the  two 
would  want  coffee  and  he  knew  that  Wat  Gib- 
son would  ask  for  a  cup  the  first  thing  on  his 
arrival. 

"I  wonder  w'at's  keepin'  'im,"  muttered  Za- 
"ida  impatiently.  Telesphore  looked  at  his 
watch.  He  had  been  looking  at  it  at  intervals 
of  one  minute  straight  along. 

"It's  ten  minutes  pas'  one/'  he  said.  He  of- 
fered no  further  comment. 

At  twelve  minutes  past  one  Za'ida's  restless- 
ness again  broke  into  speech. 

"I  can't  imagine,  me,  w'at's  become  of  An- 
dre! He  said  he'd  be  yere  sho'  at  one."  The 
old  negro  was  kneeling  before  the  fire  that  he 
had  kindled,  contemplating  the  cheerful  blaze. 
He  rolled  his  eyes  toward  Zaida. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  29 

"You  talkin'  'bout  Mr.  Andre  Pascal?  No 
need  to  look  fo'  him.  Mr.  Andre  he  b'en  down 
to  de  P'int  all  day  raisin'  Cain." 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Zaida.  Telesphore  said 
nothing. 

"Tain't  no  lie,  ma'am;  he  b'en  sho'  raisin' 
de  ole  Nick."  She  looked  at  him,  too  con- 
temptuous to  reply. 

The  negro  told  no  lie  so  far  as  his  bald 
statement  was  concerned.  He  was  simply  mis- 
taken in  his  estimate  of  Andre  Pascal's  ability 
to  "raise  Cain"  during  an  entire  afternoon  and 
evening  and  still  keep  a  rendezvous  with  a 
lady  at  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  For  An- 
dre was  even  then  at  hand,  as  the  loud  and 
menacing  howl  of  the  dog  testified.  The  negro 
hastened  out  to  admit  him. 

Andre  did  not  enter  at  once;  he  stayed  a 
while  outside  abusing  the  dog  and  communi- 
cating to  the  negro  his  intention  of  coming 
out  to  shoot  the  animal  after  he  had  attended 
to  more  pressing  business  that  was  awaiting 
him  within. 

Za'ida  arose,  a  little  flurried  and  excited 
when  he  entered.  Telesphore  remained  seated. 

Pascal  was  partially  sober.    There  had  evi- 


3<D  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

dently  been  an  attempt  at  dressing  for  the  oc- 
casion at  some  early  part  of  the  previous  day, 
but  such  evidences  had  almost  wholly  van- 
ished. His  linen  was  soiled  and  his  whole  ap- 
pearance was  that  of  a  man  who,  by  an  effort, 
had  aroused  himself  from  a  debauch.  He  was 
a  little  taller  than  Telesphore,  and  more  loosely 
put  together.  Most  women  would  have  called 
him  a  handsomer  man.  It  was  easy  to  imagine 
that  when  sober,  he  might  betray  by  some  sub- 
tle grace  of  speech  or  manner,  evidences  of 
gentle  blood. 

"W'y  did  you  keep  me  waitin',  Andre?  w'en 
you  knew — "  she  got  no  further,  but  backed  up 
against  the  table  and  stared  at  him  with  earn- 
est, startled  eyes. 

"Keep  you  waiting,  Zaida?  my  dear  li'le 
Zaide,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing!  I 
started  up  yere  an  hour  ago  an'  that — w'ere's 
that  damned  ole  Gibson?"  He  had  ap- 
proached Zaida  with  the  evident  intention  of 
embracing  her,  but  she  seized  his  wrist  and 
held  him  at  arm's  length  away.  In  casting  his 
eyes  about  for  old  Gibson  his  glance  alighted 
upon  Telesphore. 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  31 

The  sight  of  the  'Cadian  seemed  to  fill  him 
with  astonishment.  He  stood  back  and  began 
to  contemplate  the  young  fellow  and  lose  him- 
self in  speculation  and  conjecture  before  him, 
as  if  before  some  unlabeled  wax  figure.  He 
turned  for  information  to  Za'ida. 

''Say,  Zaida,  w'at  you  call  this?  Wat  kine 
of  damn  fool  you  got  sitting  yere?  Who  let 
him  in?  W'at  you  reckon  he's  lookin'  fo'? 
trouble?" 

Telesphore  said  nothing;  he  was  awaiting 
his  cue  from  Za'ida. 

"Andre  Pascal,"  she  said,  "you  jus'  as  well 
take  the  do'  an'  go.  You  might  stan'  yere 
till  the  day  o'  judgment  on  yo'  knees  befo' 
me;  an'  blow  out  yo'  brains  if  you  a  mine  to. 
I  ain't  neva  goin'  to  marry  you." 

"The  hell  you  ain't!" 

He  had  hardly  more  than  uttered  the  words 
when  he  lay  prone  on  his  back.  Telesphore 
had  knocked  him  down.  The  blow  seemed 
to  complete  the  process  of  sobering  that  had 
begun  in  him.  He  gathered  himself  together 
and  rose  to  his  feet;  in  doing  so  he  reached 
back  for  his  pistol.  His  hold  was  not  yet 
steady,  however,  and  the  weapon  slipped  from 


32  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

his  grasp  and  fell  to  the  floor.  Zaida  picked  it 
up  and  laid  it  on  the  table  behind  her.  She 
was  going  to  see  fair  play. 

The  brute  instinct  that  drives  men  at  each 
other's  throat  was  awake  and  stirring  in  these 
two.  Each  saw  in  the  other  a  thing  to  be 
wiped  out  of  his  way — out  of  existence  if  need 
be.  Passion  and  blind  rage  directed  the  blows 
which  they  dealt,  and  steeled  the  tension  of 
muscles  and  clutch  of  fingers.  They  were  not 
skillful  blows,  however. 

The  fire  blazed  cheerily;  the  kettle  which 
the  negro  had  placed  upon  the  coals  was 
steaming  and  singing.  The  man  had  gone  in 
search  of  his  master.  Zaida  had  placed  the 
lamp  out  of  harm's  way  on  the  high  mantel 
ledge  and  she  leaned  back  with  her  hands  be- 
hind her  upon  the  table. 

She  did  not  raise  her  voice  or  lift  her  finger 
to  stay  the  combat  that  was  acting  before  her. 
She  was  motionless,  and  white  to  the  lips; 
only  her  eyes  seemed  to  be  alive  and  burning 
and  blazing.  At  one  moment  she  felt  that  An- 
dre must  have  strangled  Telesphore;  but  she 
said  nothing.  The  next  instant  she  could  hard- 
ly doubt  that    the    blow    from  Telesphore's 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  33 

doubled  fist  could  be  less  than  a  killing  one; 
but  she  did  nothing. 

How  the  loose  boards  swayed  and  creaked 
beneath  the  weight  of  the  struggling  men !  the 
very  old  rafters  seemed  to  groan;  and  she  felt 
that  the  house  shook. 

The  combat,  if  fierce,  was  short,  and  it  ended 
out  on  the  gallery  whither  they  had  staggered 
through  the  open  door — or  one  had  dragged 
the  other — she  could  not  tell.  But  she  knew 
when  it  was  over,  for  there  was  a  long  mo- 
ment of  utter  stillness.  Then  she  heard  one 
of  the  men  descend  the  steps  and  go  away,  for 
the  gate  slammed  after  him.  The  other  went 
out  to  the  cistern;  the  sound  of  the  tin  bucket 
splashing  in  the  water  reached  her  where  she 
stood.  He  must  have  been  endeavoring  to  re- 
move traces  of  the  encounter. 

Presently  Telesphore  entered  the  room.  The 
elegance  of  his  apparel  had  been  somewhat 
marred;  the  men  over  at  the  'Cadian  ball 
would  hardly  have  taken  exception  now  to  his 
appearance. 

"Were  is  Andre?"  the  girl  asked. 

"He's  gone,"  said  Telesphore. 


34  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

She  had  never  changed  her  position  and 
now  when  she  drew  herself  up  her  wrists  ached 
and  she  rubbed  them  a  little.  She  was  no  lon- 
ger pale;  the  blood  had  come  back  into  her 
cheeks  and  lips,  staining  them  crimson.  She 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  He  took  it  gratefully 
enough,  but  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
it;  that  is,  he  did  not  know  what  he  might 
dare  to  do  with  it,  so  he  let  it  drop  gently  away 
and  went  to  the  fire. 

"I  reckon  we  betta  be  goin',  too/'  she  said. 
He  stooped  and  poured  some  of  the  bubbling 
water  from  the  kettle  upon  the  coffee  which 
the  negro  had  set  upon  the  hearth. 

"I'll  make  a  li'le  coffee  firs',"  he  proposed, 
"an'  anyhow  we  betta  wait  till  ole  man  w'at's- 
his-name  comes  back.  It  wouldn't  look  well 
to  leave  his  house  that  way  without  some  kine 
of  excuse  or  explanation." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  seated  herself  sub- 
missively beside  the  table. 

Her  will,  which  had  been  overmastering  and 
aggressive,  seemed  to  have  grown  numb  under 
the  disturbing  spell  of  the  past  few  hours.  An 
illusion  had  gone  from  her,  and  had  carried 
her  love  with  it.     The  absence  of  regret  re- 


A  Night  in  Acadie.  35 

vealed  this  to  her.  She  realized,  but  could  not 
comprehend  it,  not  knowing  that  the  love  had 
been  part  of  the  illusion.  She  was  tired  in 
body  and  spirit,  and  it  was  with  a  sense  of  rest- 
fulness  that  she  sat  all  drooping  and  relaxed 
and  watched  Telesphore  make  the  coffee. 

He  made  enough  for  them  both  and  a  cup 
for  old  Wat  Gibson  when  he  should  come  in, 
and  also  one  for  the  negro.  He  supposed  the 
cups,  the  sugar  and  spoons  were  in  the  safe 
over  there  in  the  corner,  and  that  is  where  he 
found  them. 

When  he  finally  said  to  Zaida,  "Come,  I'm 
going  to  take  you  home  now,"  and  drew  her 
shawl  around  her,  pinning  it  under  the  chin, 
she  was  like  a  little  child  and  followed  whither 
he  led  in  all  confidence. 

It  was  Telesphore  who  drove  on  the  way 
back,  and  he  let  the  pony  cut  no  capers,  but 
held  him  to  a  steady  and  tempered  gait.  The 
girl  was  still  quiet  and  silent;  she  was  thinking 
tenderly — a  little  tearfully  of  those  two  old 
tetes-de-mulets  yonder  on  Bayou  de  Glaize. 

How  they  crept  through  the  woods!  and 
how  dark  it  was  and  how  still ! 


36  A  Night  in  Acadie. 

"Wat  time  it  is?"  whispered  Zaida.  Alas! 
he  could  not  tell  her;  his  watch  was  broken. 
But  almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Teles- 
phore  did  not  care  what  time  it  was. 


Athenaise 


Athenaise 
I. 

ATHENAISE  went  away  in  the  morning 
to  make  a  visit  to  her  parents,  ten 
miles  back  on  rigolet  de  Bon  Dieu. 
She  did  not  return  in  the  evening,  and 
Cazeau,  her  husband,  fretted  not  a  lit- 
tle. He  did  not  worry  much  about  Athe- 
naise, who,  he  suspected,  was  resting  only 
too  content  in  the  bosom  of  her  family;  his  chief 
solicitude  was  manifestly  for  the  pony  she  had 
ridden.  He  felt  sure  those  "lazy  pigs,"  her 
brothers,  were  capable  of  neglecting  it  seri- 
ously. This  misgiving  Cazeau  communicated 
to  his  servant,  old  Felicite,  who  waited  upon 
him  at  supper. 

His  voice  was  low  pitched,  and  even  softer 
than  Felicite's.  He  was  tall,  sinewy,  swarthy, 
and  altogether  severe  looking.  His  thick  black 
hair  waved,  and  it  gleamed  like  the  breast  of 
a  crow.     The  sweep  of  his  mustache,  which 


40  Athenaise. 

was  not  so  black,  outlined  the  broad  contour 
of  the  mouth.  Beneath  the  under  lip  grew  a 
small  tuft  which  he  was  much  given  to  twist- 
ing, and  which  he  permitted  to  grow,  appar- 
ently for  no  other  purpose.  Cazeau's  eyes 
were  dark  blue,  narrow  and  overshadowed. 
His  hands  were  coarse  and  stiff  from  close  ac- 
quaintance with  farming  tools  and  implements, 
and  he  handled  his  fork  and  knife  clumsily. 
But  he  was  distinguished  looking,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  commanding  a  good  deal  of  respect, 
and  even  fear  sometimes. 

He  ate  his  supper  alone,  by  the  light  of  a 
single  coal-oil  lamp  that  but  faintly  illuminated 
the  big  room,  with  its  bare  floor  and  huge 
rafters,  and  its  heavy  pieces  of  furniture  that 
loomed  dimly  in  the  gloom  of  the  apartment. 
Felicite,  ministering  to  his  wants,  hovered 
about  the  table  like  a  little,  bent,  restless 
shadow. 

She  served  him  with  a  dish  of  sunfish  fried 
crisp  and  brown.  There  was  nothing  else  set 
before  him  beside  the  bread  and  butter  and 
the  bottle  of  red  wine  which  she  locked  care- 
fully in  the  buffet  after  he  had  poured  his  sec- 
ond glass.     She  was  occupied  with  her  mis- 


Athenaise.  41 

tress's  absence,  and  kept  reverting  to  it  after 
he  had  expressed  his  solicitude  about  the  pony. 

"Dat  beat  me!  on'y  marry  two  mont',  an' 
got  de  head  turn'  a'ready  to  go  'broad.  C'est 
pas  Chretien,  tenez!" 

Cazeau  shrugged  his  shoulders  for  answer, 
after  he  had  drained  his  glass  and  pushed  aside 
his  plate.  Felicite's  opinion  of  the  unchristian- 
like  behavior  of  his  wife  in  leaving  him  thus 
alone  after  two  months  of  marriage  weighed 
little  with  him.  He  was  used  to  solitude,  and 
did  not  mind  a  day  or  a  night  or  two  of  it. 
He  had  lived  alone  ten  years,  since  his  first 
wife  died,  and  Felicite  might  have  known  bet- 
ter than  to  suppose  that  he  cared.  He  told  her 
she  was  a  fool.  It  sounded  like  a  compliment 
in  his  modulated,  caressing  voice.  She  grumb- 
led to  herself  as  she  set  about  clearing  the 
table,  and  Cazeau  arose  and  walked  outside  on 
the  gallery;  his  spur,  which  he  had  not  re- 
moved upon  entering  the  house,  jangled  at 
every  step. 

The  night  was  beginning  to  deepen,  and  to 
gather  black  about  the  clusters  of  trees  and 
shrubs  that  were  grouped  in  the  yard.  In  the 
beam  of  light  from  the  open  kitchen  door  a 


42  Athenaise. 

black  boy  stood  feeding  a  brace  of  snarling, 
hungry  dogs;  further  away,  on  the  steps  of  a 
cabin,  some  one  was  playing  the  accordion; 
and  in  still  another  direction  a  little  negro  baby 
was  crying  lustily.  Cazeau  walked  around  to 
the  front  of  the  house,  which  was  square,  squat 
and  one-story. 

A  belated  wagon  was  driving  in  at  the  gate, 
and  the  impatient  driver  was  swearing  hoarsely 
at  his  jaded  oxen.  Felicite  stepped  out  on  the 
gallery,  glass  and  polishing  towel  in  hand,  to 
investigate,  and  to  wonder,  too,  who  could  be 
singing  out  on  the  river.  It  was  a  party  of 
young  people  paddling  around,  waiting  for  the 
moon  to  rise,  and  they  were  singing  Juanita, 
their  voices  coming  tempered  and  melodious 
through  the  distance  and  the  night. 

Cazeau's  horse  was  waiting,  saddled,  ready 
to  be  mounted,  for  Cazeau  had  many  things  to 
attend  to  before  bed-time;  so  many  things  that 
there  was  not  left  to  him  a  moment  in  which 
to  think  of  Athenaise.  He  felt  her  absence, 
though,  like  a  dull,  insistent  pain. 

However,  before  he  slept  that  night  he  was 
visited  by  the  thought  of  her,  and  by  a  vision 
of  her  fair  young  face  with  its  drooping  lips 


Athenaise.  4  3 

and  sullen  and  averted  eyes.  The  marriage 
had  been  a  blunder;  he  had  only  to  look  into 
her  eyes  to  feel  that,  to  discover  her  growing 
aversion.  But  it  was  a  thing  not  by  any  pos- 
sibility to  be  undone.  He  was  quite  prepared 
to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  expected  no  less 
than  a  like  effort  on  her  part.  The  less  she 
revisited  the  rigolet,  the  better.  He  would 
find  means  to  keep  her  at  home  hereafter. 

These  unpleasant  reflections  kept  Cazeau 
awake  far  into  the  night,  notwithstanding  the 
craving  of  his  whole  body  for  rest  and  sleep. 
The  moon  was  shining,  and  its  pale  effulgence 
reached  dimly  into  the  room,  and  with  it  a 
touch  of  the  cool  breath  of  the  spring  night. 
There  was  an  unusual  stillness  abroad;  no 
sound  to  be  heard  save  the  distant,  tireless, 
plaintive  notes  of  the  accordion. 

II. 

Athenaise  did  not  return  the  following  day, 
even  though  her  husband  sent  her  word  to  do 
so  by  her  brother,  Monteclin,  who  passed  on 
his  way  to  the  village  early  in  the  morning. 


44  Athenaise. 

On  the  third  day  Cazeau  saddled  his  horse 
and  went  himself  in  search  of  her.  She  had 
sent  no  word,  no  message,  explaining  her  ab- 
sence, and  he  felt  that  he  had  good  cause  to 
be  offended.  It  was  rather  awkward  to  have 
to  leave  his  work,  even  though  late  in  the  af- 
ternoon,— Cazeau  had  always  so  much  to  do; 
but  among  the  many  urgent  calls  upon  him, 
the  task  of  bringing  his  wife  back  to  a  sense  of 
her  duty  seemed  to  him  for  the  moment  para- 
mount. 

The  Miches,  Athenaise's  parents,  lived  on 
the  old  Gotrain  place.  It  did  not  belong  to 
them;  they  were  "running"  it  for  a  merchant 
in  Alexandria.  The  house  was  far  too  big 
for  their  use.  One  of  the  lower  rooms  served 
for  the  storing  of  wood  and  tools;  the  person 
"occupying"  the  place  before  Miche  having 
pulled  up  the  flooring  in  despair  of  being  able 
to  patch  it.  Upstairs,  the  rooms  were  so  large, 
so  bare,  that  they  offered  a  constant  temptation 
to  lovers  of  the  dance,  whose  importunities 
Madame  Miche  was  accustomed  to  meet  with 
amiable  indulgence.  A  dance  at  Miche's  and 
a  plate  of  Madame  Miche's  gumbo  file  at  mid- 
night were  pleasures  not  to  be  neglected  or 


Athenaise.  45 

despised,  unless  by  such  serious  souls  as  Ca- 
zeau. 

Long  before  Cazeau  reached  the  house  his 
approach1  had  been  observed,  for  there  was 
nothing  to  obstruct  the  view  of  the  outer  road; 
vegetation  was  not  yet  abundantly  advanced, 
and  there  was  but  a  patchy,  straggling  stand  of 
cotton  and  corn  in  Miche's  field. 

Madame  Miche,  who  had  been  seated  on 
the  gallery  in  a  rocking-chair,  stood  up  to 
greet  him  as  he  drew  near.  She  was  short  and 
fat,  and  wore  a  black  skirt  and  loose  muslin 
sack  fastened  at  the  throat  with  a  hair  brooch. 
Her  own  hair,  brown  and  glossy,  showed  but 
a  few  threads  of  silver.  Her  round  pink  face 
was  cheery,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  and  good 
humored.  But  she  was  plainly  perturbed  and 
ill  at  ease  as  Cazeau  advanced. 

Monteclin,  who  was  there  too,  was  not  ill 
at  ease,  and  made  no  attempt  to  disguise  the 
dislike  with  which  his  brother-in-law  inspired 
him.  He  was  a  slim,  wiry  fellow  of  twenty- 
five,  short  of  stature  like  his  mother,  and  re- 
sembling her  in  feature.  He  was  in  shirt- 
sleeves, half  leaning,  half  sitting,  on  the  inse- 


46  Athenaise. 

cure  railing  of  the  gallery,  and  fanning  himself 
with  his  broad-rimmed  felt  hat. 

"Cochon!"  he  muttered  under  his  breath 
as  Cazeau  mounted  the  stairs, —  "sacre  co- 
chon!" 

"Cochon"  had  sufficiently  characterized  the 
man  who  had  once  on  a  time  declined  to  lend 
Monteclin  money.  But  when  this  same  man 
had  had  the  presumption  to  propose  marriage 
to  his  well-beloved  sister,  Athenaise,  and  the 
honor  to  be  accepted  by  her,  Monteclin  felt 
that  a  qualifying  epithet  was  needed  fully  to 
express  his  estimate  of  Cazeau. 

Miche  and  his  oldest  son  were  absent.  They 
both  esteemed  Cazeau  highly,  and  talked  much 
of  his  qualities  of  head  and  heart,  and  thought 
much  of  his  excellent  standing  with  city  mer- 
chants. 

Athenaise  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  room. 
Cazeau  had  seen  her  rise  and  enter  the  house 
at  perceiving  him.  He  was  a  good  deal  mys- 
tified, but  no  one  could  have  guessed  it  when 
he  shook  hands  with  Madame  Miche.  He  had 
only  nodded  to  Monteclin,  with  a  muttered 
"Comment  9a  va?" 


Athenaise.  47 

"Tiens!  something  tole  me  you  were  coming 
to-day!"  exclaimed  Madame  Miche,  with  a  lit- 
tle blustering  appearance  of  being  cordial  and 
at  ease,  as  she  offered  Cazeau  a  chair. 

He  ventured  a  short  laugh  as  he  seated  him- 
self. 

"You  know,  nothing  would  do,"  she  went 
on,  with  much  gesture  of  her  small,  plump 
hands,  "nothing  would  do  but  Athenaise  mus' 
stay  las'  night  fo'  a  li'le  dance.  The  boys 
wouldn'  year  to  their  sister  leaving." 

Cazeau  shrugged  his  shoulders  significantly, 
telling  as  plainly  as  words  that  he  knew  noth- 
ing about  it. 

"Comment:  Monteclin  didn'  tell  you  we 
were  going  to  keep  Athenaise?"  Monteclin 
had  evidently  told  nothing. 

"An*  how  about  the  night  befo',"  questioned 
Cazeau,  "an'  las'  night?  It  isn't  possible  you 
dance  every  night  out  yere  on  the  Bon  Dieu!" 

Madame  Miche  laughed,  with  amiable  ap- 
preciation of  the  sarcasm;  and  turning  to  her 
son,  "Monteclin,  my  boy,  go  tell  yo'  sister  that 
Monsieur  Cazeau  is  yere." 

Monteclin  did  not  stir  except  to  shift  his  po- 
sition and  settle  himself  more  securely  on  the 
railing. 


48  Athenaise. 

"Did  you  year  me,  Monteclin?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  yeard  you  plain  enough,"  re- 
sponded her  son,  "but  you  know  as  well  as 
me  it's  no  use  to  tell  Thenaise  anything.  You 
been  talkin'  to  her  yo'se'f  since  Monday;  an' 
pa's  preached  himse'f  hoa'se  on  the  subject; 
an'  you  even  had  uncle  Achille  down  yere 
yesterday  to  reason  with  her.  Wen  'Thenaise 
said  she  wasn'  goin'  to  set  her  foot  back  in 
Cazeau's  house,  she  meant  it." 

This  speech,  which  Monteclin  delivered  with 
thorough  unconcern,  threw  his  mother  into  a 
condition  of  painful  but  dumb  embarrassment. 
It  brought  two  fiery  red  spots  to  Cazeau's 
cheeks,  and  for  the  space  of  a  moment  he 
looked  wicked. 

What  Monteclin  had  spoken  was  quite  true, 
though  his  taste  in  the  manner  and  choice  of 
time  and  place  in  saying  it  were  not  of  the  best. 
Athenaise,  upon  the  first  day  of  her  arrival, 
had  announced  that  she  came  to  stay,  having 
no  intention  of  returning  under  Cazeau's  roof. 
The  announcement  had  scattered  consterna- 
tion, as  she  knew  it  would.  She  had  been  im- 
plored, scolded,  entreated,  stormed  at,  until  she 
felt  herself  like  a  dragging  sail  that  all  the 


Athenaise.  49 

winds  of  heaven  had  beaten  upon.  Why  in 
the  name  of  God  had  she  married  Cazeau? 
Her  father  had  lashed  her  with  the  question 
a  dozen  times.  Why  indeed?  It  was  difficult 
now  for  her  to  understand  why,  unless  be- 
cause she  supposed  it  was  customary  for  girls 
to  marry  when  the  right  opportunity  came. 
Cazeau,  she  knew,  would  make  life  more  com- 
fortable for  her;  and  again,  she  had  liked  him, 
and  had  even  been  rather  flustered  when  he 
pressed  her  hands  and  kissed  them,  and  kissed 
her  lips  and  cheeks  and  eyes,  when  she  ac- 
cepted him. 

Monteclin  himself  had  taken  her  aside  to  talk 
the  thing  over.  The  turn  of  affairs  was  de- 
lighting him. 

"Come,  now,  Thenai'se,  you  mus'  explain  to 
me  all  about  it,  so  we  can  settle  on  a  good 
cause,  an'  secu'  a  separation  fo'  you.  Has  he 
been  mistreating  an'  abusing  you,  the  sacre 
cochon?"  They  were  alone  together  in  her 
room,  whither  she  had  taken  refuge  from  the 
angry  domestic  elements. 

"You  please  to  reserve  yo'  disgusting  ex- 
pressions, Monteclin.  No,  he  has  not  abused 
me  in  any  way  that  I  can  think." 


50  Athenaise. 

"Does  he  drink?  Come  Thenaise,  think 
well  over  it.     Does  he  ever  get  drunk?" 

"Drunk!  Oh,  mercy,  no, — Cazeau  never 
gets  drunk." 

"I  see;  it's  jus'  simply  you  feel  like  me;  you 
hate  him." 

"No,  I  don't  hate  him,"  she  returned  re- 
flectively; adding  with  a  sudden  impulse,  "It's 
jus'  being  married  that  I  detes'  an'  despise. 
I  hate  being  Mrs.  Cazeau,  an'  would  want  to 
be  Athenaise  Miche  again.  I  can't  stan'  to 
live  with  a  man;  to  have  him  always  there;  his 
coats  an'  pantaloons  hanging  in  my  room;  his 
ugly  bare  feet — washing  them  in  my  tub,  befo' 
my  very  eyes,  ugh!"  She  shuddered  with  re- 
collections, and  resumed,  with  a  sigh  that  was 
almost  a  sob:  "Mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu!  Sister 
Marie  Angelique  knew  w'at  she  was  saying; 
she  knew  me  better  than  myse'f  w'en  she  said 
God  had  sent  me  a  vocation  an'  I  was  turning 
deaf  ears.  W'en  I  think  of  a  blessed  life  in 
the  convent,  at  peace !  Oh,  w'at  was  I  dream- 
ing of!"  and  then  the  tears  came. 

Monteclin  felt  disconcerted  and  greatly  dis- 
appointed at  having  obtained  evidence  that 
would  carry  no  weight  with  a  court  of  justice. 


Athenaise.  5 1 

The  day  had  not  come  when  a  young  woman 
might  ask  the  court's  permission  to  return  to 
her  mamma  on  the  sweeping  ground  of  a  con- 
stitutional disinclination  for  marriage.  But  if 
there  was  no  way  of  untying  this  Gordian  knot 
of  marriage,  there  was  surely  a  way  of  cutting 
it. 

"Well,  'Thena'ise,  I'm  mighty  durn  sorry  yo 
got  no  better  groun's  'an  w'at  you  say.  But 
you  can  count  on  me  to  stan'  by  you  w'atever 
you  do.  God  knows  I  don'  blame  you  fo'  not 
wantin'  to  live  with  Cazeau." 

And  now  there  was  Cazeau  himself,  with  the 
red  spots  flaming  in  his  swarthy  cheeks,  look- 
ing and  feeling  as  if  he  wanted  to  thrash 
Monteclin  into  some  semblance  of  decency.  He 
arose  abruptly,  and  approaching  the  room 
which  he  had  seen  his  wife  enter,  thrust  open 
the  door  after  a  hasty  preliminary  knock.  Athe- 
naise, who  was  standing  erect  at  a  far  window, 
turned  at  his  entrance. 

She  appeared  neither  angry  nor  frightened, 
but  thoroughly  unhappy,  with  an  appeal  in  her 
soft  dark  eyes  and  a  tremor  on  her  lips  that 
seemed  to  him  expressions  of  unjust  reproach, 
that  wounded  and  maddened  him  at  once.    But 


52  Athenaise. 

whatever  he  might  feel,  Cazeau  knew  only  one 
way  to  act  toward  a  woman. 

"Athenaise,  you  are  not  ready?"  he  asked  in 
his  quiet  tones.  "It's  getting  late;  we  havn' 
any  time  to  lose." 

She  knew  that  Monteclin  had  spoken  out, 
and  she  had  hoped  for  a  wordy  interview,  a 
stormy  scene,  in  which  she  might  have  held 
her  own  as  she  had  held  it  for  the  past  three 
days  against  her  family,  with  Monteclin's  aid. 
But  she  had  no  weapon  with  which  to  com- 
bat subtlety.  Her  husband's  looks,  his  tones, 
his  mere  presence,  brought  to  her  a  sudden 
sense  of  hopelessness,  an  instinctive  realiza- 
tion of  the  futility  of  rebellion  against  a  social 
and  sacred  institution. 

Cazeau  said  nothing  further,  but  stood  wait- 
ing in  the  doorway.  Madame  Miche  had 
walked  to  the  far  end  of  the  gallery,  and  pre- 
tended to  be  occupied  with  having  a  chicken 
driven  from  her  parterre.  Monteclin  stood  by, 
exasperated,  fuming,  ready  to  burst  out. 

Athenaise  went  and  reached  for  her  riding 
skirt  that  hung  against  the  wall.  She  was 
rather  tall,  with  a  figure  which,  though  not  ro- 
bust, seemed  perfect  in  its  fine  proportions. 


Athenaise.  53 

"La  fille  de  son  pere,"  she  was  often  called, 
which  was  a  great  compliment  to  Miche.  Her 
brown  hair  was  brushed  all  fluffily  back  from 
her  temples  and  low  forehead,  and  about  her 
features  and  expression  lurked  a  softness,  a 
prettiness,  a  dewiness,  that  were  perhaps  too 
childlike,  that  savored  of  immaturity. 

She  slipped  the  riding-skirt,  which  was  of 
black  alpaca,  over  her  head,  and  with  impatient 
fingers  hooked  it  at  the  waist  over  her  pink 
linen-lawn.  Then  she  fastened  on  her  white 
sunbonnet  and  reached  for  her  gloves  on  the 
mantelpiece. 

"If  you  don'  wan'  to  go,  you  know  w'at  you 
got  to  do,  Thenaise,"  fumed  Monteclin.  "You 
don'  set  yo'  feet  back  on  Cane  River,  by  God, 
unless  you  want  to, — not  w'ile  I'm  alive." 

Cazeau  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  a  monkey 
whose  antics  fell  short  of  being  amusing. 

Athenaise  still  made  no  reply,  said  not  a 
word.  She  walked  rapidly  past  her  husband, 
past  her  brother;  bidding  good-bye  to  no  one, 
not  even  to  her  mother.  She  descended  the 
stairs,  and  without  assistance  from  any  one 
mounted  the  pony,  which  Cazeau  had  ordered 
to  be  saddled  upon  his  arrival.     In  this  way 


54  Athenaise. 

she  obtained  a  fair  start  of  her  husband,  whose 
departure  was  far  more  leisurely,  and  for  the 
greater  part  of  the  way  she  managed  to  keep  an 
appreciable  gap  between  them.  She  rode  al- 
most madly  at  first,  with  the  wind  inflating  her 
skirt  balloon-like  about  her  knees,  and  her  sun- 
bonnet  falling  back  between  her  shoulders. 

At  no  time  did  Cazeau  make  an  effort  to 
overtake  her  until  traversing  an  old  fallow 
meadow  that  was  level  and  hard  as  a  table. 
The  sight  of  a  great  solitary  oak-toee,  with 
its  seemingly  immutable  outlines,  that  had 
been  a  landmark  for  ages — or  was  it  the  odor 
of  elderberry  stealing  up  from  the  gully  to  the 
south?  or  what  was  it  that  brought  vividly 
back  to  Cazeau,  by  some  association  of  ideas, 
a  scene  of  many  years  ago?  He  had  passed 
that  old  live-oak  hundreds  of  times,  but  it 
was  only  now  that  the  memory  of  one  day 
came  back  to  him.  He  was  a  very  small  boy 
that  day,  seated  before  his  father  on  horse- 
back. They  were  proceeding  slowly,  and 
Black  Gabe  was  moving  on  before  them  at  a 
little  dog-trot.  Black  Gabe  had  run  away,  and 
had  been  discovered  back  in  the  Gotrain 
swamp.    They  had  halted  beneath  this  big  oak 


Athenaise.  55 

to  enable  the  negro  to  take  breath;  for  Cazeau's 
father  was  a  kind  and  considerate  master,  and 
every  one  had  agreed  at  the  time  that  Black 
Gabe  was  a  fool,  a  great  idiot  indeed,  for  want- 
ing to  run  away  from  him. 

The  whole  impression  was  for  some  reason 
hideous,  and  to  dispel  it  Cazeau  spurred  his 
horse  to  a  swift  gallop.  Overtaking  his  wife, 
he  rode  the  remainder  of  the  way  at  her  side  in 
silence. 

It  was  late  when  they  reached  home.  Fe- 
licite  was  standing  on  the  grassy  edge  of  the 
road,  in  the  moonlight,  waiting  for  them. 

Cazeau  once  more  ate  his  supper  alone;  for 
Athenaise  went  to  her  room,  and  there  she 
was  crying  again. 

III. 

Athenaise  was  not  one  to  accept  the  inevit- 
able with  patient  resignation,  a  talent  born  in  the 
souls  of  many  women ;  neither  was  she  the  one 
to  accept  it  with  philosophical  resignation,  like 
her  husband.  Her  sensibilities  were  alive  and 
keen  and  responsive.  She  met  the  pleasurable 
things  of  life  with  frank,  open  appreciation, 
and  against  distasteful  conditions  she  rebelled. 


56  Athenaise. 

Dissimulation  was  as  foreign  to  her  nature  as 
guile  to  the  breast  of  a  babe,  and  her  rebellious 
outbreaks,  by  no  means  rare,  had  hitherto  been 
quite  open  and  aboveboard.  People  often  said 
that  Athenaise  would  know  her  own  mind 
some  day,  which  was  equivalent  to  saying  that 
she  was  at  present  unacquainted  with  it.  If 
she  ever  came  to  such  knowledge,  it  would  be 
by  no  intellectual  research,  by  no  subtle  analy- 
ses or  tracing  the  motives  of  actions  to  their 
source.  It  would  come  to  her  as  the  song 
to  the  bird,  the  perfume  and  color  to  the  flower. 

Her  parents  had  hoped — not  without  reason 
and  justice — that  marriage  would  bring  the 
poise,  the  desirable  pose,  so  glaringly  lacking 
in  Athenaise's  character.  Marriage  they  knew 
to  be  a  wonderful  and  powerful  agent  in  the 
development  and  formation  of  a  woman's  char- 
acter; they  had  seen  its  effect  too  often  to 
doubt  it. 

"And  if  this  marriage  does  nothing  else," 
exclaimed  Miche  in  an  outburst  of  sudden  ex- 
asperation, "it  will  rid  us  of  Athenaise;  for  I 
am  at  the  end  of  my  patience  with  her!  You 
have  never  had  the  firmness  to  manage  her," — 
he  was  speaking  to  his  wife, — "I  have  not  had 


Athenaise.  57 

the  time,  the  leisure,  to  devote  to  her  training; 
and  what  good  we  might  have  accomplished, 
that  maudit  Monteclin — Well,  Cazeau  is  the 
one!  It  takes  just  such  a  steady  hand  to  guide 
a  disposition  like  Athenaise's,  a  master  hand,  a 
strong  will  that  compels  obedience." 

And  now,  when  they  had  hoped  for  so  much, 
here  was  Athenaise,  with  gathered  and  fierce 
vehemence,  beside  which  her  former  outbursts 
appeared  mild,  declaring  that  she  would  not, 
and  she  would  not,  and  she  would  not  continue 
to  enact  the  role  of  wife  to  Cazeau.  If  she 
had  had  a  reason!  as  Madame  Miche  lamented; 
but  it  could  not  be  discovered  that  she  had 
any  sane  one.  He  had  never  scolded,  or  called 
names,  or  deprived  her  of  comforts,  or  been 
guilty  of  any  of  the  many  reprehensible  acts 
commonly  attributed  to  objectionable  hus- 
bands. He  did  not  slight  nor  neglect  her.  In- 
deed, Cazeau's  chief  offense  seemed  to  be  that 
he  loved  her,  and  Athenaise  was  not  the  wo- 
man to  be  loved  against  her  will.  She  called 
marriage  a  trap  set  for  the  feet  of  unwary  and 
unsuspecting  girls,  and  in  round,  unmeasured 
terms  reproached  her  mother  with  treachery 
and  deceit. 


58  Athenaise. 

"I  told  you  Cazeau  was  the  man,"  chuckled 
Miche,  when  his  wife  had  related  the  scene 
that  had  accompanied  and  influenced  Athe- 
naise's  departure. 

Athenaise  again  hoped,  in  the  morning,  that 
Cazeau  would  scold  or  make  some  sort  of  a 
scene,  but  he  apparently  did  not  dream  of  it. 
It  was  exasperating  that  he  should  take  her 
acquiescence  so  for  granted.  It  is  true  he  had 
been  up  and  over  the  fields  and  across  the 
river  and  back  long  before  she  was  out  of  bed, 
and  he  may  have  been  thinking  of  something 
else,  which  was  no  excuse,  which  was  even  in 
some  sense  an  aggravation.  But  he  did  say 
to  her  at  breakfast,  "That  brother  of  yo's,  that 
Monteclin,  is  unbearable." 

"Monteclin?     Par  exemple!" 

Athenaise,  seated  opposite  to  her  husband, 
was  attired  in  a  white  morning  wrapper.  She 
wore  a  somewhat  abused,  long  face,  it  is  true, 
— an  expression  of  countenance  familiar  to 
some  husbands, — but  the  expression  was  not 
sufficiently  pronounced  to  mar  the  charm  of  her 
youthful  freshness.  She  had  little  heart  to  eat, 
only  playing  with  the  food  before  her,  and  she 


Athenaise.  59 

felt  a  pang  of  resentment  at  her  husband's 
healthy  appetite. 

"Yes,  Monteclin,"  he  reasserted.  "He's  de- 
veloped into  a  firs'-class  nuisance;  an'  you  bet- 
ter tell  him,  Athenaise, — unless  you  want  me 
to  tell  him, — to  confine  his  energies  after  this 
to  matters  that  concern  him.  I  have  no  use 
fo'  him  or  fo'  his  interference  in  w'at  regards 
you  an'  me  alone." 

This  was  said  with  unusual  asperity.  It  was 
the  little  breach  that  Athenaise  had  been 
watching  for,  and  she  charged  rapidly:  "It's 
strange,  if  you  detes'  Monteclin  so  heartily, 
that  you  would  desire  to  marry  his  sister."  She 
knew  it  was  a  silly  thing  to  say,  and  was  not 
surprised  when  he  told  her  so.  It  gave  her 
a  little  foothold  for  further  attack,  however.  "I 
don't  see,  anyhow,  w'at  reason  you  had  to 
marry  me,  w'en  there  were  so  many  others," 
she  complained,  as  if  accusing  him  of  perse- 
cution and  injury.  "There  was  Marianne  run- 
ning after  you  fo'  the  las'  five  years  till  it  was 
disgraceful;  an*  any  one  of  the  Dortrand  girls 
would  have  been  glad  to  marry  you.  But  no, 
nothing  would  do;  you  mus'  come  out  on  the 
rigolet  fo'  me."     Her  complaint  was  pathetic, 


60  Athenai'se. 

and  at  the  same  time  so  amusing  that  Cazeau 
was  forced  to  smile. 

"I  can't  see  w'at  the  Dortrand  girls  or  Mari- 
anne have  to  do  with  it,"  he  rejoined;  adding, 
with  no  trace  of  amusement,  "I  married  you 
because  I  loved  you;  because  you  were  the 
woman  I  wanted  to  marry,  an'  the  only  one. 
I  reckon  I  tole  you  that  befo'.  I  thought — 
of  co'se  I  was  a  fool  fo'  taking  things  fo'  grant- 
ed— but  I  did  think  that  I  might  make  you 
happy  in  making  things  easier  an'  mo'  com- 
fortable fo'  you.  I  expected — I  was  even  that 
big  a  fool — I  believed  that  yo'  coming  yere 
to  me  would  be  like  the  sun  shining  out  of  the 
clouds,  an'  that  our  days  would  be  like  w'at  the 
story-books  promise  after  the  wedding.  I  was 
mistaken.  But  I  can't  imagine  w'at  induced 
you  to  marry  me.  W'atever  it  was,  I  reckon 
you  foun'  out  you  made  a  mistake,  too.  I 
don'  see  anything  to  do  but  make  the  best  of 
a  bad  bargain,  an'  shake  han's  over  it."  He 
had  arisen  fro^n  the  table,  and,  approaching, 
held  out  his  hand  to  her.  What  he  had  said 
was  commonplace  enough,  but  it  was  signifi- 
cant, coming  from  Cazeau,  who  was  not  often 
so  unreserved  in  expressing  himself. 


Athenaise.  6 1 

Athenaise  ignored  the  hand  held  out  to  her. 
She  was  resting  her  chin  in  her  palm,  and  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  moodily  upon  the  table.  He 
rested  his  hand,  that  she  would  not  touch,  upon 
her  head  for  an  instant,  and  walked  away  out 
of  the  room. 

She  heard  him  giving  orders  to  workmen 
who  had  been  waiting  for  him  out  on  the  gal- 
lery, and  she  heard  him  mount  his  horse  and 
ride  away.  A  hundred  things  would  distract 
him  and  engage  his  attention  during  the  day. 
She  felt  that  he  had  perhaps  put  her  and  her 
grievance  from  his  thoughts  when  he  crossed 
the  threshold;  whilst  she — 

Old  Felicite  was  standing  there  holding  a 
shining  tin  pail,  asking  for  flour  and  lard  and 
eggs  from  the  storeroom,  and  meal  for  the 
chicks. 

Athenaise  seized  the  bunch  of  keys  which 
hung  from  her  belt  and  flung  them  at 
Felicite's  feet. 

"Tiens!  tu  vas  les  garder  comme  tu  as  jadis 
fait.     Je  ne  veux  plus  de  ce  train  la,  moi !" 

The  old  woman  stooped  and  picked  up  the 
keys  from  the  floor.     It  was  really  all  one  to 


62  Ath 


enaise. 


her  that  her  mistress  returned  them  to  her 
keeping,  and  refused  to  take  further  account 
of  the  menage. 

IV. 

It  seemed  now  to  Athenaise  that  Monteclin 
was  the  only  friend  left  to  her  in  the  world. 
Her  father  and  mother  had  turned  from  her  in 
what  appeared  to  be  her  hour  of  need.  Her 
friends  laughed  at  her,  and  refused  to  take  seri- 
ously the  hints  which  she  threw  out, — feeling 
her  way  to  discover  if  marriage  were  as  dis- 
tasteful to  other  women  as  to  herself.  Monteclin 
alone  understood  her.  He  alone  had  always 
been  ready  to  act  for  her  and  with  her,  to  com- 
fort and  solace  her  with  his  sympathy  and  his 
support.  Her  only  hope  for  rescue  from  her 
hateful  surroundings  lay  in  Monteclin.  Of 
herself  she  felt  powerless  to  plan,  to  act,  even 
to  conceive  a  way  out  of  this  pitfall  into  which 
the  whole  world  seemed  to  have  conspired  to 
thrust  her. 

She  had  a  great  desire  to  see  her  brother, 
and  wrote  asking  him  to  come  to  her.  But  it 
better  suited  Monteclin's  spirit  of  adventure  to 
appoint  a  meeting-place  at  the  turn  of  the  lane, 


Athena'ise.  63 

where  Athena'ise  might  appear  to  be  walking 
leisurely  for  health  and  recreation,  and  where 
he  might  seem  to  be  riding  along,  bent  on 
some  errand  of  business  or  pleasure. 

There  had  been  a  shower,  a  sudden  down- 
pour, short  as  it  was  sudden,  that  had  laid  the 
dust  in  the  road.  It  had  freshened  the  pointed 
leaves  of  the  live-oaks,  and  brightened  up  the 
big  fields  of  cotton  on  either  side  of  the  lane 
till  they  seemed  carpeted  with  green,  glitter- 
ing gems. 

Athena'ise  walked  along  the  grassy  edge  of 
the  road,  lifting  her  crisp  skirts  with  one  hand, 
and  with  the  other  twirling  a  gay  sunshade 
over  her  bare  head.  The  scent  of  the  fields 
after  the  rain  was  delicious.  She  inhaled  long 
breaths  of  their  freshness  and  perfume,  that 
soothed  and  quieted  her  for  the  moment. 
There  were  birds  splashing  and  spluttering  in 
the  pools,  pluming  themselves  on  the  fence- 
rails,  and  sending  out  little  sharp  cries,  twit- 
ters, and  shrill  rhapsodies  of  delight. 

She  saw  Monteclin  approaching  from  a 
great  distance, — almost  as  far  away  as  the  turn 
of  the  woods.  But  she  could  not  feel  sure  it 
was  he;  it  appeared  too  tall  for  Monteclin,  but 


64  Athenaise. 

that  was  because  he  was  riding  a  large  horse. 
She  waved  her  parasol  to  him ;  she  was  so  glad 
to  see  him.  She  had  never  been  so  glad  to 
see  Monteclin  before;  not  even  the  day  when 
he  had  taken  her  out  of  the  convent,  against 
her  parents'  wishes,  because  she  had  expressed 
a  desire  to  remain  there  no  longer.  He 
seemed  to  her,  as  he  drew  near,  the  embodi- 
ment of  kindness,  of  bravery,  of  chivalry,  even 
of  wisdom;  for  she  had  never  known  Mon- 
teclin at  a  loss  to  extricate  himself  from  a  dis- 
agreeable situation. 

He  dismounted,  and,  leading  his  horse  by 
the  bridle,  started  to  walk  beside  her,  after  he 
had  kissed  her  affectionately  and  asked  her 
what  she  was  crying  about.  She  protested  that 
she  was  not  crying,  for  she  was  laughing, 
though -drying  her  eyes  ait  the  same  time  on 
her  handkerchief,  rolled  in  a  soft  mop  for  the 
purpose. 

She  took  Monteclin's  arm,  and  they  strolled 
slowly  down  the  lane;  they  could  not  seat 
themselves  for  a  comfortable  chat,  as  they 
would  have  liked,  with  the  grass  all  sparkling 
and  bristling  wet. 


Athenaise.  65 

Yes,  she  was  quite  as  wretched  as  ever,  she 
told  him.  The  week  which  had  gone  by  since  she 
saw  him  had  in  no  wise  lightened  the  burden 
of  her  discontent.  There  had  even  been  some 
additional  provocations  laid  upon  her,  and  she 
told  Monteclin  all  about  them, — about  the 
keys,  for  instance,  which  in  a  fit  of  temper  she 
had  returned  to  Felicite's  keeping;  and  she 
told  how  Cazeau  had  brought  them  back  to 
her  as  if  they  were  something  she  had  acci- 
dentally lost,  and  he  had  recovered;  and  how 
he  had  said,  in  that  aggravating  tone  of  his, 
that  it  was  not  the  custom  on  Cane  river  for 
the  negro  servants  to  carry  the  keys,  when 
there  was  a  mistress  at  the  head  of  the  house- 
hold. 

But  Athenaise  could  not  tell  Monteclin  any- 
thing to  increase  the  disrespect  which  he  al- 
ready entertained  for  his  brother-in-law;  and 
it  was  then  he  unfolded  to  her  a  plan  which  he 
had  conceived  and  worked  out  for  her  deliver- 
ance from  this  galling  matrimonial  yoke. 

It  was  not  a  plan  which  met  with  instant 
favor,  which  she  was  at  once  ready  to  accept, 
for  it  involved  secrecy  and  dissimulation,  hate- 
ful alternatives,  both  of  them.     But  she  was 


66  Athena'ise. 

filled  with  admiration  for  Monteclin's  resources 
and  wonderful  talent  for  contrivance.  She  ac- 
cepted trie  plan;  not  with  the  immediate  de- 
termination to  act  upon  it,  rather  with  the  in- 
tention to  sleep  and  to  dream  upon  it. 

Three  days  later  she  wrote  to  Monteclin  that 
she  had  abandoned  herself  to  his  counsel.  Dis- 
pleasing as  it  might  be  to  her  sense  of  hon- 
esty, it  would  yet  be  less  trying  than  to  live 
on  with  a  soul  full  of  bitterness  and  revolt,  as 
she  had  done  for  the  past  two  months. 

V. 

When  Cazeau  awoke,  one  morning  at  his 
usual  very  early  hour,  it  was  to  find  the  place 
at  his  side  vacant.  This  did  not  surprise  him  un- 
til he  discovered  that  Athena'ise  was  not  in  the 
adjoining  room,  where  he  had  often  found  her 
sleeping  in  the  morning  on  the  lounge.  She 
had  perhaps  gone  out  for  an  early  stroll,  he  re- 
flected, for  her  jacket  and  hat  were  not  on  the 
rack  where  she  had  hung  them  the  night  be- 
fore. But  there  were  other  things  absent, — 
a  gown  or  two  from  the  armoire;  and  there 
was  a  great  gap  in  the  piles  of  lingerie  on  the 


Athena'ise.  6  J 

shelf;  and  her  traveling-bag  was  missing,  and 
so  were  her  bits  of  jewelry  from  the  toilet  tray 
— and  Athena'ise  was  gone! 

But  the  absurdity  of  going  during  the  night, 
as  if  she  had  been  a  prisoner,  and  he  the  keeper 
of  a  dungeon!  So  much  secrecy  and  mystery, 
to  go  sojourning  out  on  the  Bon  Dieu?  Well, 
the  Miches  might  keep  their  daughter  after 
this.  For  the  companionship  of  no  woman  on 
earth  would  he  again  undergo  the  humiliating 
sensation  of  baseness  that  had  overtaken  him 
in  passing  the  old  oak-tree  in  the  fallow  mea- 
dow. 

But  a  terrible  sense  of  loss  overwhelmed 
Cazeau.  It  was  not  new  or  sudden ;  he  had  felt 
it  for  weeks  growing  upon  him,  and  it  seemed 
to  culminate  with  Athenaise's  flight  from 
home.  He  knew  that  he  could  again  compel 
her  return  as  he  had  done  once  before, — com- 
pel her  to  return  to  the  shelter  of  his  roof, 
compel  her  cold  and  unwilling  submission  to 
his  love  and  passionate  transports;  but  the 
loss  of  self-respect  seemed  to  him  too  dear  a 
price  to  pay  for  a  wife. 

He  could  not  comprehend  why  she  had 
seemed  to  prefer  him  above  others;  why  she 


68  Athenaise. 

had  attracted  him  with  eyes,  with  voice,  with 
a  hundred  womanly  ways,  and  finally  distracted 
him  with  love  which  she  seemed,  in  her  timid, 
maidenly  fashion,  to  return.  The  great  sense 
of  loss  came  from  the  realization  of  having 
missed  a  chance  for  happiness, — a  chance  that 
would  come  his  way  again  only  through  a 
miracle.  He  could  not  think  of  himself  loving 
any  other  woman,  and  could  not  think  of 
Athenaise  ever — even  at  some  remote  date — 
caring  for  him. 

He  wrote  her  a  letter,  in  which  he  disclaimed 
any  further  intention  of  forcing  his  commands 
upon  her.  He  did  not  desire  her  presence 
ever  again  in  his  home  unless  she  came  of  her 
free  will,  uninfluenced  by  family  or  friends; 
unless  she  could  be  the  companion  he  had 
hoped  for  in  marrying  her,  and  in  some  meas- 
ure return  affection  and  respect  for  the  love 
which  he  continued  and  would  always  continue 
to  feel  for  her.  This  letter  he  sent  out  to  the 
rigolet  by  a  messenger  early  in  the  day.  But 
she  was  not  out  on  the  rigolet,  and  bad  not 
been  there. 

The  family  turned  instinctively  to  Monte- 
clin,  and  almost  literally  fell  upon  him  for  an 


Athenaise.  69 

explanation;  he  had  been  absent  from  home  all 
night.  There  was  much  mystification  in  his 
answers,  and  a  plain  desire  to  mislead  in  his 
assurances  of  ignorance  and  innocence. 

But  with  Cazeau  there  was  no  doubt  or  spec- 
ulation when  he  accosted  the  young  fellow. 
"Monteclin,  w'at  have  you  done  with  Athen- 
aise?" he  questioned  bluntly.  They  had  met 
in  the  open  road  on  horseback,  just  as  Cazeau 
ascended  the  river  bank  before  his  house. 

"W'at  have  you  done  to  Athenaise?"  re- 
turned Monteclin  for  answer. 

"I  don't  reckon  you've  considered  yo'  con- 
duct by  any  light  of  decency  an'  propriety  in 
encouraging  yo'  sister  to  such  an  action,  but 
let  me  tell  you" — 

"Voyons!  you  can  let  me  alone  with  yo'  de- 
cency an'  morality  an'  fiddlesticks.  I  know 
you  mus'  'a'  done  Athenaise  pretty  mean  that 
she  can't  live  with  you;  an'  fo'  my  part,  I'm 
mighty  durn  glad  she  had  the  spirit  to  quit 
you." 

"I  ain't  in  the  humor  to  take  any  notice  of 
yo'  impertinence,  Monteclin;  but  let  me  re- 
mine  you  that  Athenaise  is  nothing  but  a  chile 
in  character;  besides  that,  she's  my  wife,  an' 


jo  Athenaise. 

I  hole  you  responsible  fo'  her  safety  an'  wel- 
fare. If  any  harm  of  any  description  happens 
to  her,  I'll  strangle  you,  by  God,  like  a  rat,  and 
fling  you  in  Cane  river,  if  I  have  to  hang  fo' 
it!"  He  had  not  lifted  his  voice.  The  only  sign 
of  anger  was  a  savage  gleam  in  his  eyes. 

"I  reckon  you  better  keep  yo'  big  talk  fo' 
the  women,  Cazeau,"  replied  Monteclin,  riding 
away. 

But  he  went  doubly  armed  after  that,  and  in- 
timated that  the  precaution  was  not  needless, 
in  view  of  the  threats  and  menaces  that  were 
abroad  touching  his  personal  safety. 

VI. 

Athenaise  reached  her  destination  sound  of 
skin  and  limb,  but  a  good  deal  flustered,  a  lit- 
tle frightened,  and  altogether  excited  and  in- 
terested by  her  unusual  experiences. 

Her  destination  was  the  house  of  Sylvie,  on 
Dauphine  Street,  in  New  Orleans, — a  three- 
story  gray  brick,  standing  directly  on  the  ban- 
quette, with  three  broad  stone  steps  leading  to 
the  deep  front  entrance.  From  the  second-story 
balcony  swung  a  small  sign,  conveying  to  pass- 


Athenaise.  7 1 

ers-by  the  intelligence  that  within  were  "cham- 
bi'es  garnies." 

It  was  one  morning  in  the  last  week  of  April 
that  Athenaise  presented  herself  at  the  Dau- 
phine  Street  house.  Sylvie  was  expecting  her, 
and  introduced  her  at  once  to  her  apartment, 
which  was  in  the  second  story  of  the  back 
ell,  and  accessible  by  an  open,  outside  gallery. 
There  was  a  yard  below,  paved  with  broad 
stone  flagging;  many  fragrant  flowering  shrubs 
and  plants  grew  in  a  bed  along  the  side  of  the 
opposite  wall,  and  others  were  distributed  about 
in  tubs  and  green  boxes. 

It  was  a  plain  but  large  enough  room  into 
which  Athenaise  was  ushered,  with  matting  on 
the  floor,  green  shades  and  Nottingham-lace 
curtains  at  the  windows  that  looked  out  on  the 
gallery,  and  furnished  with  a  cheap  walnut 
suit.  But  everything  looked  exquisitely  clean, 
and  the  whole  place  smelled  of  cleanliness. 

Athenaise  at  once  fell  into  the  rocking-chair, 
with  the  air  of  exhaustion  and  intense  relief  of 
one  who  has  come  to  the  end  of  her  troubles. 
Sylvie,  entering  behind  her,  laid  the  big  travel- 
ing-bag on  the  floor  and  deposited  the  jacket 
on  the  bed. 


72  Athenaise. 

She  was  a  portly  quadroon  of  fifty  or  there- 
about, clad  in  an  ample  volante  of  the  old-fash- 
ioned purple  calico  so  much  affected  by  her 
class.  She  wore  large  golden  hoop-earrings, 
and  her  hair  was  combed  plainly,  with  every 
appearance  of  effort  to  smooth  out  the  kinks. 
She  had  broad,  coarse  features,  with  a  nose 
that  turned  up,  exposing  the  wide  nostrils,  and 
that  seemed  to  emphasize  the  loftiness  and  com- 
mand of  her  bearing, — a  dignity  that  in  the 
presence  of  white  people  assumed  a  character 
of  respectfulness,  but  never  of  obsequiousness. 
Sylvie  believed  firmly  in  maintaining  the  color- 
line,  and  would  not  suffer  a  white  person,  even 
a  child,  to  call  her  "Madame  Sylvie," — a  title 
which  she  exacted  religiously,  however,  from 
those  of  her  own  race. 

"I  hope  you  be  please'  wid  yo'  room,  ma- 
dame,"  she  observed  amiably.  "Dat's  de  same 
room  w'at  yo'  brother,  M'sieur  Miche,  all  time 
like  w'en  he  come  to  New  Orlean'.  He  well, 
M'sieur  Miche?  I  receive'  his  letter  las'  week, 
an'  dat  same  day  a  gent'man  want  I  give  'im 
dat  room.  I  say,  'No,  dat  room  already  in- 
gage'.'  Ev-body  like  dat  room  on  'count  it  so 
quite  (quiet).  M'sieur  Gouvernail,  dere  in  nax' 


Athena'ise.  73 

room,  you  can't  pay  'im!  He  been  stay  t'ree 
year'  in  dat  room;  but  all  fix'  up  fine  wid  his 
own  furn'ture  an'  books,  'tel  you  can't  see!  I 
say  to  'im  plenty  time',  'M'sieur  Gouvernail, 
w'y  you  don't  take  dat  t'ree-story  front,  now, 
long  it's  empty?'  He  tells  me,  'Leave  me  'lone, 
Sylvie;  I  know  a  good  room  w'en  I  fine  it, 
me. 

She  had  been  moving  slowly  and  majestic- 
ally about  the  apartment,  straightening  and 
smoothing  down  bed  and  pillows,  peering  into 
ewer  and  basin,  evidently  casting  an  eye 
around  to  make  sure  that  everything  was  as 
it  should  be. 

"I  sen'  you  some  fresh  water,  madame,"  she 
offered  upon  retiring  from  the  room.  "An' 
w'en  you  want  an't'ing,  you  jus'  go  out  on  de 
gall'ry  an'  call  Pousette:  she  year  you  plain, 
— she  right  down  dere  in  de  kitchen." 

Athena'ise  was  really  not  so  exhausted  as  she 
had  every  reason  to  be  after  that  interminable 
and  circuitous  way  by  which  Monteclin  had 
seen  fit  to  have  her  conveyed  to  the  city. 

Would  she  ever  forget  that  dark  and  truly 
dangerous  midnight  ride  along  the  "coast"  to 
the  mouth  of  Cane  river!     There  Monteclin 


74  Athenaise. 

had  parted  with  her,  after  seeing  her  aboard 
the  St.  Louis  and  Shreveport  packet  which  he 
knew  would  pass  there  before  dawn.  She  had 
received  instructions  to  disembark  at  the 
mouth  of  Red  river,  and  there  transfer  to  the 
first  south-bound  steamer  for  New  Orleans;  all 
of  which  instructions  she  had  followed  implic- 
itly, even  to  making  her  way  at  once  to  Syl- 
vie's  upon  her  arrival  in  the  city.  Monteclin 
had  enjoined  secrecy  and  much  caution;  the 
clandestine  nature  of  the  affair  gave  it  a  savor 
of  adventure  which  was  highly  pleasing  to 
him.  Eloping  with  his  sister  was  only  a  little 
less  engaging  than  eloping  with  some  one 
else's  sister. 

But  Monteclin  did  not  do  the  grand seigneur 
by  halves.  He  had  paid  Sylvie  a  whole  month 
in  advance  for  Athena'ise's  board  and  lodging. 
Part  of  the  sum  he  had  been  forced  to  borrow, 
it  is  true,  but  he  was  not  niggardly. 

Athenaise  was  to  take  her  meals  in  the 
house,  which  none  of  the  other  lodgers  did; 
the  one  exception  being  that  Mr.  Gouvernail 
was  served  with  breakfast  on  Sunday  morn- 
ings. 


Athenai'se.  75 

Sylvie's  clientele  came  chiefly  from  the 
southern  parishes;  for  the  most  part,  people 
spending  but  a  few  days  in  the  city.  She  prided 
herself  upon  the  quality  and  highly  respect- 
able character  of  her  patrons,  who  came  and 
went  unobtrusively. 

The  large  parlor  opening  upon  the  front  bal- 
cony was  seldom  used.  Her  guests  were  per- 
mitted to  entertain  in  this  sanctuary  of  ele- 
gance,— but  they  never  did.  She  often  rented 
it  for  the  night  to  parties  of  respectable  and 
discreet  gentlemen  desiring  to  enjoy  a  quiet 
game  of  cards  outside  the  bosom  of  their  fami- 
lies. The  second-story  hall  also  led  by  a  long 
window  out  on  the  balcony.  And  Sylvie  ad- 
vised Athena'ise,  when  she  grew  weary  of  her 
back  room,  to  go  and  sit  on  the  front  bal- 
cony, which  was  shady  in  the  afternoon,  and 
where  she  might  find  diversion  in  the  sounds 
and  sights  of  the  street  below. 

Athenaise  refreshed  herself  with  a  bath,  and 
was  soon  unpacking  her  few  belongings,  which 
she  ranged  neatly  away  in  the  bureau  drawers 
and  the  armoire. 

She  had  revolved  certain  plans  in  iher  mind 
during  the  past  hour  or  so.     Her  present  in- 


j6  Athenaise. 

tention  was  to  live  on  indefinitely  in  this  big, 
cool,  clean  back  room  on  Dauphine  street.  She 
had  thought  seriously,  for  moments,  of  the  con- 
vent, with  all  readiness  to  embrace  the  vows 
of  poverty  and  chastity;  but  what  about  obedi- 
ence? Later,  she  intended,  in  some  round- 
about way,  to  give  her  parents  and  her  hus- 
band the  assurance  of  her  safety  and  welfare; 
reserving  the  right  to  remain  unmolested  and 
lost  to  them.  To  live  on  at  the  expense  of 
Monteclin's  generosity  was  wholly  out  of  the 
question,  and  Athenaise  meant  to  look  about 
for  some  suitable  and  agreeable  employment. 
The  imperative  thing  to  be  done  at  present, 
however,  was  to  go  out  in  search  of  material 
for  an  inexpensive  gown  or  two;  for  she  found 
herself  in  the  painful  predicament  of  a  young 
woman  having  almost  literally  nothing  to  wear. 
She  decided  upon  pure  white  for  one,  and  some 
sort  of  a  sprigged  muslin  for  the  other. 

VII. 

On  Sunday  morning,  two  days  after  Athen- 
aise's  arrival  in  the  city,  she  went  in  to  break- 
fast somewhat  later  than  usual,  to  find  two 


Athenaise.  77 

covers  laid  at  table  instead  of  the  one  to  which 
she  was  accustomed.  She  had  been  to  mass, 
and  did  not  remove  her  hat,  but  put  her  fan, 
parasol,  and  prayer-book  aside.  The  dining- 
room  was  situated  just  beneath  her  own  apart- 
ment, and,  like  all  rooms  of  the  house,  was 
large  and  airy;  the  floor  was  covered  with  a 
glistening  oil-cloth. 

The  small,  round  table,  immaculately  set, 
was  drawn  near  the  open  window.  There  were 
some  tall  plants  in  boxes  on  the  gallery  out- 
side; and  Pousette,  a  little,  old,  intensely  black 
woman,  was  splashing  and  dashing  buckets  of 
water  on  the  flagging,  and  talking  loud  in  her 
Creole  patois  to  no  one  in  particular. 

A  dish  piled  with  delicate  river-shrimps  and 
crushed  ice  was  on  the  table;  a  caraffe  of 
crystal-clear  water,  a  few  hors  cPceuvres,  be- 
side a  small  golden-brown  crusty  loaf  of  French 
bread  at  each  plate.  A  half-bottle  of  wine  and 
the  morning  paper  were  set  at  the  place  oppo- 
site Athenaise. 

She  had  almost  completed  her  breakfast 
when  Gouvernail  came  in  and  seated  himself 
at  table.  He  felt  annoyed  at  finding  his  cher- 
ished privacy  invaded.     Sylvie  was  removing 


78  Athenaise. 

the  remains  of  a  mutton-chop  from  before 
Athenaise,  and  serving  her  with  a  cup  of  cafe 
au  lait. 

"M'sieur  Gouvernail,"  offered  Sylvie  in  her 
most  insinuating  and  impressive  manner,  "you 
please  leave  me  make  you  acquaint'  wid  Ma- 
dame Cazeau.  Dat's  M'sieur  Miche's  sister; 
you  meet  'im  two  t'ree  time',  you  rec'lec',  an' 
been  ^one  day  to  de  race  wid  'im.  Madame 
Cazeau,  you  please  leave  me  make  you  ac- 
quaint' wid  M'sieur  Gouvernail." 

Gouvernail  expressed  himself  greatly  pleased 
to  meet  the  sister  of  Monsieur  Miche,  of  whom 
he  had  not  the  slightest  recollection.  He  in- 
quired after  Monsieur  Miche's  health,  and  po- 
litely offered  Athenaise  a  part  of  his  news- 
paper,— the  part  which  contained  the  Woman's 
Page  and  the  social  gossip. 

Athenaise  faintly  remembered  that  Sylvie 
had  spoken  of  a  Monsieur  Gouvernail  occupy- 
ing the  room  adjoining  hers,  living  amid  luxu- 
rious surroundings  and  a  multitude  of  books. 
She  had  not  thought  of  him  further  than  to 
picture  him  a  stout,  middle-aged  gentleman, 
with  a  bushy  beard  turning  gray,  wearing  large 
gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and    stooping    some- 


Athenaise.  79 

what  from  much  bending  over  books  and  writ- 
ing material.  She  had  confused  him  in  her 
mind  with  the  likeness  of  some  literary  celeb- 
rity that  she  had  run  across  in  the  advertising 
pages  of  a  magazine. 

Gouvernail's  appearance  was,  in  truth,  in  no 
sense  striking.  He  looked  older  than  thirty 
and  younger  than  forty,  was  of  medium  height 
and  weight,  with  a  quiet,  unobtrusive  manner 
which  seemed  to  ask  that  he  be  let  alone.  His 
hair  was  light  brown,  brushed  carefully  and 
parted  in  the  middle.  His  mustache  was 
brown,  and  so  were  his  eyes,  which  had  a  mild, 
penetrating  quality.  He  was  neatly  dressed  in 
the  fashion  of  the  day;  and  his  hands  seemed 
to  Athenaise  remarkably  white  and  soft  for  a 
man's. 

He  had  been  buried  in  the  contents  of  his 
newspaper,  when  he  suddenly  realized  that 
some  further  little  attention  might  be  due  to 
Miche's  sister.  He  started  to  offer  her  a  glass 
of  wine,  when  he  was  surprised  and  relieved 
to  find  that  she  had  quietly  slipped  away  while 
he  was  absorbed  in  his  own  editorial  on  Cor- 
rupt Legislation. 


80  Athenaise. 

Gouvernail  finished  his  paper  and  smoked 
his  cigar  out  on  the  gallery.  He  lounged 
about,  gathered  a  rose  for  his  buttonhole,  and 
had  his  regular  Sunday-morning  confab  with 
Pousette,  to  whom  he  paid  a  weekly  stipend 
for  brushing  his  shoes  and  clothing.  He  made 
a  great  pretense  of  haggling  over  the  transac- 
tion, only  to  enjoy  her  uneasiness  and  garru- 
lous excitement. 

He  worked  or  read  in  his  room  for  a  few 
hours,  and  when  he  quitted  the  house,  at  three 
in  the  afternoon,  it  was  to  return  no  more  till 
late  at  night.  It  was  his  almost  invariable 
custom  to  spend  Sunday  evenings  out  in  the 
American  quarter,  among  a  congenial  set  of 
men  and  women, — des  esftritsforts,  all  of  them, 
whose  lives  were  irreproachable,  yet  whose 
opinions  would  startle  even  the  traditional  "sa- 
peur,"  for  whom  "nothing  is  sacred."  But  for 
all  his  "advanced"  opinions,  Gouvernail  was  a 
liberal-minded  fellow;  a  man  or  woman  lost 
nothing  of  his  respect  by  being  married. 

When  he  left  the  house  in  the  afternoon, 
Athenaise  had  already  ensconced  herself  on 
the  front  balcony.  He  could  see  her  through 
the  jalousies  when  he  passed  on  his  way  to  the 


Athenai'se.  81 

front  entrance.  She  had  not  yet  grown  lone- 
some or  homesick;  the  newness  of  her  sur- 
roundings made  them  sufficiently  entertaining. 
She  found  it  diverting  to  sit  there  on  the  front 
balcony  watching  people  pass  by,  even  though 
there  was  no  one  to  talk  to.  And  then  the  com- 
forting, comfortable  sense  of  not  being  mar- 
ried ! 

She  watched  Gouvernail  walk  down  the 
street,  and  could  find  no  fault  with  his  bear- 
ing. He  could  hear  the  sound  of  her  rockers 
for  some  little  distance.  He  wondered  what 
the  "poor  little  thing"  was  doing  in  the  city, 
and  meant  to  ask  Sylvie  about  her  when  he 
should  happen  to  think  of  it. 

VIII. 

The  following  morning,  towards  noon,  when 
Gouvernail  quitted  his  room,  he  was  confronted 
by  Athenai'se,  exhibiting  some  confusion  and 
trepidation  at  being  forced  to  request  a  favor 
of  him  at  so  early  a  stage  of  their  acquaintance. 
She  stood  in  her  doorway,  and  had  evidently 
been  sewing,  as  the  thimble  on  her  finger  testi- 
fied, as  well  as  a  long-threaded  needle  thrust  in 


82  Athenaise. 

the  bosom  of  her  gown.  She  held  a  stamped 
but  unaddressed  letter  in  her  hand. 

And  would  Mr.  Gouvernail  be  so  kind  as  to 
address  the  letter  to  her  brother,  Mr.  Mon- 
teclin Miche?  She  would  hate  to  detain  him 
with  explanations  this  morning, — another  time, 
perhaps, — but  now  she  begged  that  he  would 
give  himself  the  trouble. 

He  assured  her  that  it  made  no  difference, 
that  it  was  no  trouble  whatever;  and  he  drew 
a  fountain  pen  from  his  pocket  and  addressed 
the  letter  at  her  dictation,  resting  it  on  the  in- 
verted rim  of  his  straw  hat.  She  wondered  a 
little  at  a  man  of  his  supposed  erudition  stum- 
bling over  the  spelling  of  "Monteclin"  and 
"Miche." 

She  demurred  at  overwhelming  him  with  the 
additional  trouble  of  posting  it,  but  he  suc- 
ceeded in  convincing  her  that  so  simple  a  task 
as  the  posting  of  a  letter  would  not  add  an  iota 
to  the  burden  of  the  day.  Moreover,  he  prom- 
ised to  carry  it  in  his  hand,  and  thus  avoid  any 
possible  risk  of  forgetting  it  in  his  pocket. 

After  that,  and  after  a  second  repetition  of 
the  favor,  when  she  had  told  him  that  she  had 
had  a  letter  from  Monteclin,  and  looked  as  if 


Athenaise.  83 

she  wanted  to  tell  him  more,  he  felt  that  he 
knew  her  better.  He  felt  that  he  knew  her 
well  enough  to  join  her  out  on  the  balcony,  one 
night,  when  he  found  her  sitting  there  alone. 
He  was  not  one  who  deliberately  sought  the 
society  of  women,  but  he  was  not  wholly  a 
bear.  A  little  commiseration  for  Athenaise's 
aloneness,  perhaps  some  curiosity  to  know  fur- 
ther what  manner  of  woman  she  was,  and  the 
natural  influence  of  her  feminine  charm  were 
equal  unconfessed  factors  in  turning  his  steps 
towards  the  balcony  when  he  discovered  the 
shimmer  of  her  white  gown  through  the  open 
hall  window. 

It  was  already  quite  late,  but  the  day  had 
been  intensely  hot,  and  neighboring  balconies 
and  doorways  were  occupied  by  chattering 
groups  of  humanity,  loath  to  abandon  the 
grateful  freshness  of  the  outer  air.  The  voices 
about  her  served  to  reveal  to  Athenaise  the 
feeling  of  loneliness  that  was  gradually  com- 
ing over  her.  Notwithstanding  certain  dor- 
mant impulses,  she  craved  human  sympathy 
and  companionship. 

She  shook  hands  impulsively  with  Gouver- 
nail,  and  told  him  how  glad  she  was  to  see 


84  Athenai'se. 

him.  He  was  not  prepared  for  such  an  ad- 
mission, but  it  pleased  him  immensely,  detect- 
ing  as  he  did  that  the  expression  was  as  sin- 
cere as  it  was  outspoken.  He  drew  a  chair 
up  within  comfortable  conversational  distance 
of  Athenaise,  though  he  had  no  intention  of 
talking  more  than  was  barely  necessary  to  en- 
courage Madame —  He  had  actually  forgot- 
ten her  name! 

He  leaned  an  elbow  on  the  balcony  rail,  and 
would  have  offered  an  opening  remark  about 
the  oppressive  heat  of  the  day,  but  Athenaise 
did  not  give  him  the  opportunity.  How  glad 
she  was  to  talk  to  some  one,  and  how  she 
talked! 

An  hour  later  she  had  gone  to  her  room, 
and  Gouvernail  stayed  smoking  on  the  balcony. 
He  knew  her  quite  well  after  that  hour's  talk. 
It  was  not  so  much  what  she  had  said  as  what 
her  half  saying  had  revealed  to  his  quick  in- 
telligence. He  knew  that  she  adored  Monte- 
clin,  and  he  suspected  that  she  adored  Cazeau 
without  being  herself  aware  of  it.  He  had 
gathered  that  she  was  self-willed,  impulsive,  in- 
nocent, ignorant,  unsatisfied,  dissatisfied;  for 
had  she  not  complained  that  things  seemed  all 


Athena*i'se.  85 

wrongly  arranged  in  this  world,  and  no  one 
was  permitted  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way? 
And  he  told  her  he  was  sorry  she  had  discov- 
ered that  primordial  fact  of  existence  so  early 
in  life. 

He  commiserated  her  loneliness,  and  scanned 
his  bookshelves  next  morning  for  something  to 
lend  her  to  read,  rejecting  everything  that  of- 
fered itself  to  his  view*  Philosophy  was  out 
of  the  question,  and  so  was  poetry;  that  is, 
such  poetry  as  he  possessed.  He  had  not 
sounded  her  literary  tastes,  and  strongly  sus- 
pected she  had  none;  that  she  would  have  re- 
jected The  Duchess  as  readily  as  Mrs.  Hum- 
phry Ward.     He  compromised  on  a  magazine. 

It  had  entertained  her  passably,  she  admitted, 
upon  returning  it.  A  New  England  story  had 
puzzled  her,  it  was  true,  and  a  Creole  tale  had 
offended  her,  but  the  pictures  had  pleased  her 
greatly,  especially  one  which  had  reminded  her 
so  strongly  of  Monteclin  after  a  hard  day's 
ride  that  9he  was  loath  to  give  it  up.  It  was 
one  of  Remington's  Cowboys,  and  Gouvernail 
insisted  upon  her    keeping    it, — keeping     the 


86  Athenai'se. 

He  spoke  to  her  daily  after  that,  and  was  al- 
ways eager  to  render  her  some  service  or  to 
do  something  towards  her  entertainment. 

One  afternoon  he  took  her  out  to  the  lake 
end.  She  had  been  there  once,  some  years  be- 
fore, but  in  winter,  so  the  trip  was  compara- 
tively new  and  strange  to  her.  The  large  ex- 
panse of  water  studded  with  pleasure-boats,  the 
sight  of  children  placing  merrily  along  the 
grassy  palisades,  the  music,  all  enchanted  her. 
Gouvernail  thought  her  the  most  beautiful  wo- 
man he  had  ever  seen.  Even  her  gown — the 
sprigged  muslin — appeared  to  him  the  most 
charming  one  imaginable.  Nor  could  anything 
be  more  becoming  than  the  arrangement  of 
her  brown  hair  under  the  white  sailor  hat,  all 
rolled  back  in  a  soft  puff  from  her  radiant  face. 
And  she  carriedher  parasol  and  lifted  her  skirts 
and  used  her  fan  in  ways  that  seemed  quite 
unique  and  peculiar  to  herself,  and  which  he 
considered  almost  worthy  of  study  and  imita- 
tion. 

They  did  not  dine  out  there  at  the  water's 
edge,  as  they  might  have  done,  but  returned 
early  to  the  city  to  avoid  the  crowd.  Athe- 
na'ise  wanted  to  go  home,  for  she  said  Sylvie 


Athenaise.  Sy 

would  have  dinner  prepared  and  would  be  ex- 
pecting her.  But  it  was  not  difficult  to  per- 
suade her  to  dine  instead  in  the  quiet  little 
restaurant  that  he  knew  and  liked,  with  its 
sanded  floor,  its  secluded  atmosphere,  its  de- 
licious menu,  and  its  obsequious  waiter  want- 
ing to  know  what  he  might  have  the  honor 
of  serving  to  "monsieur  et  madame."  No 
wonder  he  made  the  mistake,  with  Gouvernail 
assuming  such  an  air  of  proprietorship!  But 
Athenaise  was  very  tired  after  it  all ;  the  sparkle 
went  out  of  her  face,  and  she  hung  draggingly 
on  his  arm  in  walking  home. 

He  was  reluctant  to  part  from  her  when  she 
bade  him  good-night  at  her  door  and  thanked 
him  for  the  agreeable  evening.  He  had  hoped 
she  would  sit  outside  until  it  was  time  for  him 
to  regain  the  newspaper  office.  He  knew  that 
she  would  undress  and  get  into  her  peignoir 
and  lie  upon  her  bed;  and  what  he  wanted  to 
do,  what  he  would  have  given  much  to  do,  was 
to  go  and  sit  beside  her,  read  to  her  something 
restful,  soothe  her,  do  her  bidding,  whatever 
it  might  be.  Of  course  there  was  no  use  in 
thinking  of  that.    But  he  was  surprised  at  his 


88  Athenaise. 

growing  desire  to  be  serving  her.  She  gave 
him  an  opportunity  sooner  than  he  looked  for. 

"Mr.  Gouvernail,"  she  called  from  her  room, 
"will  you  be  so  kine  as  to  call  Pousette  an' 
tell  her  she  fo'got  to  bring  my  ice-water?" 

He  was  indignant  at  Pousette' s  negligence, 
and  called  severely  to  her  over  the  banisters. 
He  was  sitting  before  his  own  door,  smok- 
ing. He  knew  that  Athenaise  had  gone  to 
bed,  for  her  room  was  dark,  and  she  had 
opened  the  slats  of  the  door  and  windows.  Her 
bed  was  near  a  window. 

Pousette  came  flopping  up  with  the  ice- 
water,  and  with  a  hundred  excuses:  "Mo  pa 
oua  vou  a  tab  c'te  lanuite,  mo  cri  vou  pe  gagni 
deja  la-bas ;  parole !  Vou  pas  cri  conte  c,a  Ma- 
dame Sylvie?"  She  had  not  seen  Athenaise  at 
table,  and  thought  she  was  gone.  She  swore 
to  this,  and  hoped  Madame  Sylvie  would  not 
be  informed  of  her  remissness. 

A  little  later  Athenaise  lifted  her  voice 
again:  "Mr.  Gouvernail,  did  you  remark  that 
young  man  sitting  on  the  opposite  side  from 
us,  coming  in,  with  a  gray  coat  an'  a  blue  ban' 
aroun'  his  hat?" 


Athenai'se.  89 

Of  course  Gouvernail  had  not  noticed  any 
such  individual,  but  he  assured  Athenaise  that 
he  had  observed  the  young  fellow  particularly. 

"Don't  you  think  he  looked  something, — 
not  very  much,  of  co'se, — but  don't  you  think 
he  had  a  little  faux-air  of  Monteclin?" 

"I  think  he  looked  strikingly  like  Monte- 
clin," asserted  Gouvernail,  with  the  one  idea 
of  prolonging  the  conversation.  "I  meant  to 
call  your  attention  to  the  resemblance,  and 
something  drove  it  out  of  my  head." 

"The  same  with  me,"  returned  Athenai'se. 
"Ah,  my  dear  Monteclin!  I  wonder  w'at  he 
is  doing  now?" 

"Did  you  receive  any  news,  any  letter  from 
him  to-day?"  asked  Gouvernail,  determined 
that  if  the  conversation  ceased  it  should  not  be 
through  lack  of  effort  on  his  part  to  sustain  it. 

"Not  to-day,  but  yesterday.  He  tells  me 
that  maman  was  so  distracted  with  uneasiness 
that  finally,  to  pacify  her,  he  was  fo'ced  to  con- 
fess that  he  knew  w'ere  I  was,  but  that  he  was 
boun'  by  a  vow  of  secrecy  not  to  reveal  it. 
But  Cazeau  has  not  noticed  him  or  spoken  to 
him  since  he  threaten'  to  throw  po'  Monteclin 
in  Cane  river.     You  know  Cazeau  wrote  me  a 


90  Athenaise. 

letter  the  morning  I  lef ,  thinking  I  had  gone 
to  the  rigolet.  An'  maman  opened  it,  an'  said 
it  was  full  of  the  mos'  noble  sentiments,  an'  she 
wanted  Monteclin  to  sen'  it  to  me;  but  Monte- 
clin  refuse'  poin'  blank,  so  he  wrote  to  me." 

Gouvernail  preferred  to  talk  of  Monteclin. 
He  pictured  Cazeau  as  unbearable,  and  did  not 
like  to  think  of  him. 

A  little  later  Athenaise  called  out,  "Good- 
night, Mr.  Gouvernail." 

"Good-night,"  he  returned  reluctantly.  And 
when  he  thought  that  she  was  sleeping,  he  got 
up  and  went  away  to  the  midnight  pandemon- 
ium of  his  newspaper  office. 

IX. 

Athenaise  could  not  have  held  out  through 
the  month  had  it  not  been  for  Gouvernail.  With 
the  need  of  caution  and  secrecy  always  upper- 
most in  her  mind,  she  made  no  new  acquaint- 
ances, and  she  did  not  seek  out  persons  al- 
ready known  to  her;  however,  she  knew  so  few, 
it  required  little  effort  to  keep  out  of  their  way. 
As  for  Sylvie,  almost  every  moment  of  her 
time  was  occupied  in  looking  after  her  house; 


Athenaise.  91 

and,  moreover,  her  deferential  attitude  towards 
her  lodgers  forbade  anything  like  the  gossipy 
chats  in  which  Athenaise  might  have  conde- 
scended sometimes  to  indulge  with  her  land- 
lady. The  transient  lodgers,  who  came  and 
went,  she  never  had  occasion  to  meet.  Hence 
she  was  entirely  dependent  upon  Gouvernail 
for  company. 

He  appreciated  the  situation  fully;  and  every 
moment  that  he  could  spare  from  his  work  he 
devoted  to  her  entertainment.  She  liked  to  be 
out  of  doors,  and  they  strolled  together  in  the 
summer  twilight  through  the  mazes  of  the  old 
French  quarter.  They  went  again  to  the  lake 
end,  and  stayed  for  hours  on  the  water;  return- 
ing so  late  that  the  streets  through  which  they 
passed  were  silent  and  deserted.  On  Sunday 
morning  he  arose  at  an  unconscionable  hour  to 
take  her  to  the  French  market,  knowing  that 
the  sights  and  sounds  there  would  interest  her. 
And  he  did  not  join  the  intellectual  coterie  in 
the  afternoon,  as  he  usually  did,  but  placed 
himself  all  day  at  the  disposition  and  service  of 
Athenaise. 

Notwithstanding  all,  his  manner  toward  her 
was  tactful,  and  evinced  intelligence  and  a  deep 


92  Athenaise. 

knowledge  of  'her  character,  surprising  upon 
so  brief  an  acquaintance.  For  the  time  he  was 
everything  to  her  that  she  would  have  him; 
he  replaced  home  and  friends.  Sometimes  she 
wondered  if  he  had  ever  loved  a  woman.  She 
could  not  fancy  him  loving  any  one  passion- 
ately, rudely,  offensively,  as  Cazeau  loved  her. 
Once  she  was  so  naive  as  to  ask  him  outright 
if  he  had  ever  been  in  love,  and  he  assured  her 
promptly  that  he  had  not.  She  thought  it  an 
admirable  trait  in  his  character,  and  esteemed 
him  greatly  therefor. 

He  found  her  crying  one  night,  not  openly 
or  violently.  She  was  leaning  over  the  gallery 
rail,  watching  the  toads  that  hopped  about  in 
the  moonlight,  down  on  the  damp  flagstones  of 
the  courtyard.  There  was  an  oppressively 
sweet  odor  rising  from  the  cape  jessamine. 
Pousette  was  down  there,  mumbling  and  quar- 
reling with  some  one,  and  seeming  to  be  hav- 
ing it  all  her  own  way, — as  well  she  might, 
when  her  companion  was  only  a  black  cat  that 
had  come  in  from  a  neighboring  yard  to  keep 
her  company. 

Athenaise  did  admit  feeling  heart-sick,  body- 
sick,  when  he  questioned  her;  she  supposed  it 


Athenai'se.  93 

was  nothing  but  homesick.  A  letter  from  Mon- 
teclin had  stirred  her  all  up.  She  longed  for 
her  mother,  for  Monteclin;  she  was  sick  for  a 
sight  of  the  cotton-fields,  the  scent  of  the 
ploughed  earth,  for  the  dim,  mysterious  charm 
of  the  woods,  and  the  old  tumble-down  home 
on  the  Bon  Dieu. 

As  Gouvernail  listened  to  her,  a  wave  of  pity 
and  tenderness  swept  through  him.  He  took 
her  hands  and  pressed  them  against  him.  He 
wondered  what  would  happen  if  he  were  to 
put  his  arms  around  her. 

He  was  hardly  prepared  for  what  happened, 
but  he  stood  it  courageously.  She  twined  her 
arms  around  his  neck  and  wept  outright  on 
his  shoulder;  the  hot  tears  scalding  his  cheek 
and  neck,  and  her  whole  body  shaken  in  his 
arms.  The  impulse  was  powerful  to  strain  her 
to  him;  the  temptation  was  fierce  to  seek  her 
lips;  but  he  did  neither. 

He  understood  a  thousand  times  better  than 
she  herself  understood  it  that  he  was  acting  as 
substitute  for  Monteclin.  Bitter  as  the  con- 
viction was,  he  accepted  it.  He  was  patient; 
he  could  wait.     He  hoped  some  day  to  hold 


94  Athenaise. 

her  with  a  lover's  arms.  That  she  was  married 
made  no  particle  of  difference  to  Gouvernail. 
He  could  not  conceive  or  dream  of  it  making 
a  difference.  When  the  time  came  that  she 
wanted  him, — as  he  hoped  and  believed  it 
would  come, — he  felt  he  would  have  a  right 
to  her.  So  long  as  she  did  not  want  him,  he 
had  no  right  to  her, — no  more  than  her  hus- 
band had.  It  was  very  hard  to  feel  her  warm 
breath  and  tears  upon  his  cheek,  and  her  strug- 
gling bosom  pressed  against  him  and  her  soft 
arms  clinging  to  him  and  his  whole  body  and 
soul  aching  for  her,  and  yet  to  make  no  sign. 

He  tried  to  think  what  Monteclin  would 
have  said  and  done,  and  to  act  accord- 
ingly. He  stroked  her  hair,  and  held  her  in  a 
gentle  embrace,  until  the  tears  dried  and  the 
sobs  ended.  Before  releasing  herself  she  kissed 
him  against  the  neck;  she  had  to  love  some- 
body in  her  own  way!  Even  that  he  endured 
like  a  stoic.  But  it  was  well  he  left  her,  to 
plunge  into  the  thick  of  rapid,  breathless,  ex- 
acting work  till  nearly  dawn. 

Athenaise  was  greatly  soothed,  and  slept 
well.    The  touch  of  friendly  hands  and  caress- 


Athenaise.  95 

ing  arms  had  been  very  grateful.  Hencefor- 
ward she  would  not  be  lonely  and  unhappy, 
with  Gouvernail  there  to  comfort  her. 


X. 

The  fourth  week  of  Athena'ise's  stay  in  the 
city  was  drawing  to  a  close.  Keeping  in  view 
the  intention  which  she  had  of  finding  some 
suitable  and  agreeable  employment,  she  had 
made  a  few  tentatives  in  that  direction.  But 
with  the  exception  of  two  little  girls  who  had 
promised  to  take  piano  lessons  at  a  price  that 
would  be  embarrassing  to  mention,  these  at- 
tempts had  been (  fruitless.  Moreover,  the 
homesickness  kept  coming  back,  and  Gouver- 
nail was  not  always  there  to  drive  it  away. 

She  spent  much  of  her  time  weeding  and 
pottering  among  the  flowers  down  in  the 
courtyard.  She  tried  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
black  cat,  and  a  mockingbird  that  hung  in  a 
cage  outside  the  kitchen  door,  and  a  disreput- 
able parrot  that  belonged  to  the  cook  next 
door,  and  swore  hoarsely  all  day  long  in  bad 
French. 


96  Athenaise. 

Beside,  she  was  not  well;  she  was  not  herself, 
as  she  told  Sylvie.  The  climate  of  New  Or- 
leans did  not  agree  with  her.  Sylvie  was  dis- 
tressed to  learn  this,  as  she  felt  in  some  measure 
responsible  for  the  health  and  well-being  of 
Monsieur  Miche's  sister;  and  she  made  it  her 
duty  to  inquire  closely  into  the  nature  and 
character  of  Athenaise's  malaise. 

Sylvie  was  very  wise,  and  Athenaise  was 
very  ignorant.  The  extent  of  her  ignorance 
and  the  depth  of  her  subsequent  enlightenment 
were  bewildering.  She  stayed  a  long,  long 
time  quite  still,  quite  stunned,  after  her  in- 
terview with  Sylvie,  except  for  the  short, 
uneven  breathing  that  ruffled  her  bosom. 
Her  whole  being  was  steeped  in  a  wave  of 
ecstasy.  When  she  finally  arose  from  the 
chair  in  which  she  had  been  seated,  and  looked 
at  herself  in  the  mirror,  a  face  met  hers  which 
she  seemed  to  see  for  the  first  time,  so  trans- 
figured was  it  with  wonder  and  rapture. 

One  mood  quickly  followed  another,  in  this 
new  turmoil  of  her  senses,  and  the  need  of  ac- 
tion became  uppermost.  Her  mother  must 
know  at  once,  and  her  mother  must  tell  Mon- 
teclin.     And     Cazeau    must     know.     As  she 


Athenaise.  97 

thought  of  him,  the  first  purely  sensuous  tre- 
mor of  her  life  swept  over  her.  She  half  whis- 
pered his  name,  and  the  sound  of  it  brought  red 
blotches  into  her  cheeks.  She  spoke  it  over 
and  over,  as  if  it  were  some  new,  sweet  sound 
born  out  of  darkness  and  confusion,  and  reach- 
ing her  for  the  first  time.  She  was  impatient 
to  be  with  him.  Her  whole  passionate  nature 
was  aroused  as  if  by  a  miracle. 

She  seated  herself  to  write  to  her  husband. 
The  letter  he  would  get  in  the  morning,  and 
she  would  be  with  him  at  night.  What  would 
he  say?  How  would  he  act?  She  knew  that 
he  would  forgive  her,  for  had  he  not  written  a 
letter? — and  a  pang  of  resentment  toward 
Monteclin  shot  through  her.  What  did  he 
mean  by  withholding  that  letter?  How  dared 
he  not  have  sent  it? 

Athenaise  attired  herself  for  the  street,  and 
went  out  to  post  the  letter  which  she  had 
penned  with  a  single  thought,  a  spontaneous 
impulse.  It  would  have  seemed  incoherent  to 
most  people,  but  Cazeau  would  understand. 

She  walked  along  the  street  as  if  she  had 
fallen  heir  to  some  magnificent  inheritance.  On 
her  face  was  a  look  of  pride  and  satisfaction 


98  Athenai'se. 

that  passers-by  noticed  and  admired.  She 
wanted  to  talk  to  some  one,  to  tell  some  per- 
son; and  she  stopped  at  the  corner  and  told 
the  oyster-woman,  who  was  Irish,  and  who 
God-blessed  her,  and  wished  prosperity  to  the 
race  of  Cazeaus  for  generations  to  come.  She 
held  the  oyster-woman's  fat,  dirty  little  baby  in 
her  arms  and  scanned  it  curiously  and  observ- 
ingly,  as  if  a  baby  were  a  phenomenon  that  she 
encountered  for  the  first  time  in  life.  She  even 
kissed  it! 

Then  what  a  relief  it  was  to  Athenai'se  to 
walk  the  streets  without  dread  of  being  seen 
and  recognized  by  some  chance  acquaintance 
from  Red  river!  No  one  could  have  said  now 
that  she  did  not  know  her  own  mind. 

She  went  directly  from  the  oyster-woman's 
to  the  office  of  Harding  &  Offdean,  her  hus- 
band's merchants;  and  it  was  with  such  an  air 
of  partnership,  almost  proprietorship,  that  she 
demanded  a  sum  of  money  on  her  husband's 
account,  they  gave  it  to  her  as  unhesitatingly  as 
they  would  have  handed  it  over  to  Cazeau  him- 
self. When  Mr.  Harding,  who  knew  her, 
asked  politely  after  her  health,  she  turned  so 
rosy  and  looked  so  conscious,  he  thought  it  a 


Athenaise.  99 

great  pity  for  so  pretty  a  woman  to  be  such  a 
little  goose. 

Athenaise  entered  a  dry-goods  store  and 
bought  all  manner  of  things, — little  presents  for 
nearly  everybody  she  knew.  She  bought 
whole  bolts  of  sheerest,  softest,  downiest  white 
stuff;  and  when  the  clerk,  in  trying  to  meet 
her  wishes,  asked  if  she  intended  it  for  infant's 
use,  she  could  have  sunk  through  the  floor, 
and  wondered  how  he  might  have  suspected  it. 

As  it  was  Monteclin  who  had  taken  her  away 
from  her  husband,  she  wanted  it  to  be  Monte- 
clin who  should  take  her  back  to  him.  So  she 
wrote  him  a  very  curt  note, — in  fact  it  was  a 
postal  card, — asking  that  he  meet  her  at  the 
train  on  the  evening  following.  She  felt  con- 
vinced that  after  what  had  gone  before,  Cazeau 
would  await  her  at  their  own  home;  and  she 
preferred  it  so. 

Then  there  was  the  agreeable  excitement  of 
getting  ready  to  leave,  of  packing  up  her 
things.  Pousette  kept  coming  and  going, 
coming  and  going;  and  each  time  that  she 
quitted  the  room  it  was  with  something  that 
Athenaise  had  given  her, — a  handkerchief,  a 
petticoat,  a  pair  of  stockings  with  two  tiny 


IOO 


Athenaise. 


holes  at  the  toes,  some  broken  prayer-beads, 
and  finally  a  silver  dollar. 

Next  it  was  Sylvie  who  came  along  bear- 
ing a  gift  of  what  she  called  "a  set  of  pattern',,, 
— things  of  complicated  design  which  never 
could  have  been  obtained  in  any  new-fangled 
bazaar  or  pattern-store,  that  Sylvie  had  ac- 
quired of  a  foreign  lady  of  distinction  whom 
she  had  nursed  years  before  at  the  St.  Charles 
hotel.  Athenaise  accepted  and  handled  them 
with  reverence,  fully  sensible  of  the  great  com- 
pliment and  favor,  and  laid  them  religiously 
away  in  the  trunk  which  she  had  lately  ac- 
quired. 

She  was  greatly  fatigued  after  the  day  of 
unusual  exertion,  and  went  early  to  bed  and  to 
sleep.  All  day  long  she  had  not  once  thought 
of  Gouvernail,  and  only  did  think  of  him  when 
aroused  for  a  brief  instant  by  the  sound  of  his 
foot-falls  on  the  gallery,  as  he  passed  in  going 
to  his  room.  He  had  hoped  to  find  her  up, 
waiting  for  him. 

But  the  next  morning  he  knew.  Some  one 
must  have  told  him.  There  was  no  subject 
known  to  her  which  Sylvie  hesitated  to  discuss 


Athenaise.  101 

in  detail  with  any  man  of  suitable  years  and 
discretion. 

Athenaise  found  Gouvernail  waiting  with  a 
carriage  to  convey  her  to  the  railway  station. 
A  momentary  pang  visited  her  for  having  for- 
gotten him  so  completely,  when  he  said  to  her, 
"Sylvie  tells  me  you  are  going  away  this  morn- 
ing." 

He  was  kind,  attentive,  and  amiable,  as 
usual,  but  respected  to  the  utmost  the  new  dig- 
nity and  reserve  that  her  manner  had  de- 
veloped since  yesterday.  She  kept  looking 
from  the  carriage  window,  silent,  and  embar- 
rassed as  Eve  after  losing  her  ignorance.  He 
talked  of  the  muddy  streets  and  the  murky 
morning,  and  of  Monteclin.  He  hoped  she 
would  find  everything  comfortable  and  pleas- 
ant in  the  country,  and  trusted  she  would  in- 
form him  whenever  she  came  to  visit  the  city 
again.  He  talked  as  if  afraid  or  mistrustful  of 
silence  and  himself. 

At  the  station  she  handed  him  her  purse,  and 
he  bought  her  ticket,  secured  for  her  a  com- 
fortable section,  checked  her  trunk,  and  got  all 
the  bundles  and  things  safely  aboard  the  train. 
She  felt  very  grateful.     He  pressed  her  hand 


102  Athenai*se. 

warmly,  lifted  his  hat,  and  left  her.  He  was 
a  man  of  intelligence,  and  took  defeat  grace- 
fully; that  was  all.  But  as  he  made  his  way 
back  to  the  carriage,  he  was  thinking,  "By 
heaven,  it  hurts,  it  hurts!" 

XL 

Athenaise  spent  a  day  of  supreme  happiness 
and  expectancy.  The  fair  sight  of  the  country 
unfolding  itself  before  her  was  balm  to  her 
vision  and  to  her  soul.  She  was  charmed  with 
the  rather  unfamiliar,  broad,  clean  sweep  of 
the  sugar  plantations,  with  their  monster  sugar- 
houses,  their  rows  of  neat  cabins  like  little  vil- 
lages of  a  single  street,  and  their  impressive 
homes  standing  apart  amid  clusters  of  trees. 
There  were  sudden  glimpses  of  a  bayou  curl- 
ing between  sunny,  grassy  banks,  or  creeping 
sluggishly  out  from  a  tangled  growth  of  wood, 
and  brush,  and  fern,  and  poison-vines,  and  pal- 
mettos. And  passing  through  the  long 
stretches  of  monotonous  woodlands,  she  would 
close  her  eyes  and  taste  in  anticipation  the 
moment  of  her  meeting  with  Cazeau.  She 
could  think  of  nothing  but  him. 


Athenaise.  103 

It  was  night  when  she  reached  her  station. 
There  was  Monteclin,  as  she  had  expected, 
waiting  for  her  with  a  two-seated  buggy,  to 
which  he  had  hitched  his  own  swift-footed, 
spirited  pony.  It  was  good,  he  felt,  to  have 
her  back  on  any  terms;  and  he  had  no  fault 
to  find  since  she  came  of  her  own  choice.  He 
more  than  suspected  the  cause  of  her  coming; 
her  eyes  and  her  voice  and  her  foolish  little 
manner  went  far  in  revealing  the  secret  that 
was  brimming  over  in  her  heart.  But  after  he 
had  deposited  her  at  her  own  gate,  and  as  he 
continued  his  way  toward  the  rigolet,  he  could 
not  help  feeling  that  the  affair  had  taken  a 
very  disappointing,  an  ordinary,  a  most  com- 
monplace turn,  after  all.  He  left  her  in  Ca- 
zeau's  keeping. 

Her  husband  lifted  her  out  of  the  buggy, 
and  neither  said  a  word  until  they  stood  to- 
gether within  the  shelter  of  the  gallery.  Even 
then  they  did  not  speak  at  first.  But  Athe- 
naise turned  to  him  with  an  appealing  gesture. 
As  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms,  he  felt  the  yield- 
ing of  her  whole  body  against  him.  He  felt 
her  lips  for  the  first  time  respond  to  the  passion 
of  his  own. 


104  Athenaise. 

The  country  night  was  dark  and  warm  and 
still,  save  for  the  distant  notes  of  an  accordion 
which  some  one  was  playing  in  a  cabin  away 
off.  A  little  negro  baby  was  crying  some- 
where. As  Athenaise  withdrew  from  her  hus- 
band's embrace,  the  sound  arrested  her. 

"Listen,  Cazeau!  How  Juliette's  baby  is 
crying!  Pauvre  ti  chou,  I  wonder  w'at  is  the 
matter  with  it?" 


After  the  Winter 


After  the  Winter 


TREZINIE,   the   blacksmith's    daughter, 
stepped  out  upon  the  gallery  just    as 
M'sieur  Michel  passed  by.    He  did  not 
notice  the  girl  but  walked  straight  on  down 
the  village  street. 

His  seven  hounds  skulked,  as  usual,  about 
him.  At  his  side  hung  his  powder-horn,  and 
on  his  shoulder  a  gunny-bag  slackly  filled  with 
game  that  he  carried  to  the  store.  A  broad 
felt  hat  shaded  his  bearded  face  and  in  his 
hand  he  carelessly  swung  his  old-fashioned 
rifle.  It  was  doubtless  the  same  with  which 
he  had  slain  so  many  people,  Trezinie  shud- 
deringly  reflected.  For  Cami,  the  cobbler's 
son — who  must  have  known — had  often  related 
to  her  how  this  man  had  killed  two  Choctaws, 
as  many  Texans,  a  free  mulatto  and  number- 
less blacks,  in  that  vague  locality  known  as 
"the  hills." 

107 


/ 


108  After  the  Winter. 

Older  people  who  knew  better  took  little 
trouble  to  correct  this  ghastly  record  that  a 
younger  generation  had  scored  against  him. 
They  themselves  had  come  to  half-believe  that 
M'sieur  Michel  might  be  capable  of  anything, 
living  as  he  had,  for  so  many  years,  apart 
from  humanity,  alone  with  his  hounds  in  a  ken- 
nel of  a  cabin  on  the  hill.  The  time  seemed  to 
most  of  them  fainter  than  a  memory  when,  a 
lusty  young  fellow  of  twenty-five,  he  had  culti- 
vated his  strip  of  land  across  the  lane  from 
Les  Cheniers;  when  home  and  toil  and  wife 
and  child  were  so  many  benedictions  that  he 
humbly  thanked  heaven  for  having  given  him. 

But  in  the  early  '6o's  he  went  with  his 
friend  Duplan  and  the  rest  of  the  "Louisiana 
Tigers."  He  came  back  with  some  of  them. 
He  came  to  find — well,  death  may  lurk  in  a 
peaceful  valley  lying  in  wait  to  ensnare  the 
toddling  feet  of  little  ones.  Then,  there  are 
women — there  are  wives  with  thoughts  that 
roam  and  grow  wanton  with  roaming;  women 
whose  pulses  are  stirred  by  strange  voices  and 
eyes  that  Woo ;  women  who  forget  the  claims  of 
yesterday,  the  hopes  of  to-morrow,  in  the  im- 
petuous clutch  of  to-day. 


After  the  Winter.  109 

But  that  was  no  reason,  some  people 
thought,  why  he  should  have  cursed  men  who 
found  their  blessings  where  they  had  left  them 
— cursed  God,  who  had  abandoned  him. 

Persons  who  met  him  upon  the  road  had 
long  ago  stopped  greeting  him.  What  was  the 
use?  He  never  answered  them;  he  spoke  to 
no  one;  he  never  so  much  as  looked  into  men's 
faces.  When  he  bartered  his  game  and  fish  at 
the  village  store  for  powder  and  shot  and  such 
scant  food  as  he  needed,  he  did  so  with  few 
words  and  less  courtesy.  Yet  feeble  as  it  was, 
this  was  the  only  link  that  held  him  to  his  fel- 
low-beings. 

Strange  to  say,  the  sight  of  M'sieur  Michel, 
though  more  forbidding  than  ever  that  delight- 
ful spring  afternoon,  was  so  suggestive  to  Tre- 
zinie  as  to  be  almost  an  inspiration. 

It  was  Easter  eve  and  the  early  part  of  April. 
The  whole  earth  seemed  teeming  with  new, 
green,  vigorous  life  everywhere — except  the 
arid  spot  that  immediately  surrounded  Tre- 
zinie.  It  was  no  use ;  she  had  tried.  Nothing 
would  grow  among  those  cinders  that  filled  the 
yard;  in  that  atmosphere  of  smoke  and  flame 
that  was  constantly  belching  from  the  forge 


no  After  the  Winter. 

where  her  father  worked  at  his  trade.  There 
were  wagon  wheels,  bolts  and  bars  of  iron, 
plowshares  and  all  manner  of  unpleasant-look- 
ing things  littering  the  bleak,  black  yard; 
nothing  green  anywhere  except  a  few  weeds 
that  would  force  themselves  into  fence  corners. 
And  Trezinie  knew  that  flowers  belong  to 
Easter  time,  just  as  dyed  eggs  do.  She  had 
plenty  of  eggs;  no  one  had  more  or  prettier 
ones ;  she  was  not  going  to  grumble  about  that. 
But  she  did  feel  distressed  because  she  had  not 
a  flower  to  help  deck  the  altar  on  Easter  morn- 
ing. And  every  one  else  seemed  to  have  them 
in  such  abundance!  There  was  'Dame  Suz- 
anne among  her  roses  across  the  way.  She 
must  have  clipped  a  hundred  since  noon.  An 
hour  ago  Trezinie  had  seen  the  carriage  from 
Les  Cheniers  pass  by  on  its  way  to  church  with 
Mamzelle  Euphrasie's  pretty  head  looking  like 
a  picture  enframed  with  the  Easter  lilies  that 
filled  the  vehicle. 

For  the  twentieth  time  Trezinie  walked  out 
upon  the  gallery.  She  saw  M'sieur  Michel 
and  thought*  of  the  pine  hill.  When  she 
thought  of  the  hill  she  thought  of  the  flowers 
that  grew  there — free  as  sunshine.     The  girl 


After  the  Winter.  1 1 1 

gave  a  joyous  spring  that  changed  to  a  faran- 
dole  as  her  feet  twinkled  across  the  rough, 
loose  boards  of  the  gallery. 

"He,  Cami!"  she  cried,  clapping  her  hands 
together. 

Cami  rose  from  the  bench  where  he  sat  peg- 
ging away  at  the  clumsy  sole  of  a  shoe,  and 
came  lazily  to  the  fence  that  divided  his  abode 
from  Trezinie's. 

"Well,  w'at?"  he  inquired  with  heavy  ami- 
ability. She  leaned  far  over  the  railing  to  bet- 
ter communicate  with  him. 

"You'll  go  with  me  yonda  on  the  hill  to  pick 
flowers  fo'  Easter,  Cami?  I'm  goin'  to  take 
La  Fringante  along,  too,  to  he'p  with  the 
baskets.     W'at  you  say?" 

"No!"  was  the  stolid  reply.  "I'm  boun'  to 
finish  them  shoe',  if  it  is  fo'  a  nigga." 

"Not  now,"  she  returned  impatiently;  "to- 
morrow mo'nin'  at  sun-up.  An'  I  tell  you, 
Cami,  my  flowers'll  beat  all!  Look  yonda  at 
'Dame  Suzanne  pickin'  her  roses  a'ready.  An* 
Mamzelle  Euphraisie  she's  car'ied  her  lilies  an' 
gone,  her.  You  tell  me  all  that's  goin'  be  fresh 
to-moro'!" 


112  After  the  Winter. 

"Jus'  like  you  say,"  agreed  the  boy,  turn- 
ing to  resume  his  work.  "But  you  want  to 
mine  out  fo'  the  ole  possum  up  in  the  wood. 
Let  M'sieu  Michel  set  eyes  on  you!"  and  he 
raised  his  arms  as  if  aiming  with  a  gun.  "Pirn, 
pam,  poum!  No  mo'  Trezinie,  no  mo'  Cami, 
no  mo'  La  Fringante — all  stretch' !" 

The  possible  risk  which  Cami  so  vividly 
foreshadowed  but  added  a  zest  to  Trezinie's 
projected  excursion. 

II. 

It  was  hardly  sun-up  on  the  following  morn- 
ing when  the  three  children — Trezinie,  Cami 
and  the  little  negress,  La  Fringante — were  fill- 
ing big,  flat  Indian  baskets  from  the  abundance 
of  brilliant  flowers  that  studded  the  hill. 

In  their  eagerness  they  had  ascended  the 
slope  and  penetrated  deep  into  the  forest  with- 
out thought  of  M'sieur  Michel  or  of  his  abode. 
Suddenly,  in  the  dense  wood,  they  came  upon 
his  hut — low,  forbidding,  seeming  to  scowl  re- 
buke upon  them  for  their  intrusion. 

La  Fringante  dropped  her  basket,  and,  with 
a  cry,  fled.     Cami  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to 


After  the  Winter.  113 

do  the  same.  But  Trezinie,  after  the  first  tre- 
mor, saw  that  the  ogre  himself  was  away.  The 
wooden  shutter  of  the  one  window  was  closed. 
The  door,  so  low  that  even  a  small  man  must 
have  stooped  to  enter  it,  was  secured  with  a 
chain.  Absolute  silence  reigned,  except  for 
the  whirr  of  wings  in  the  air,  the  fitful  notes  of 
a  bird  in  the  treetop. 

"Can't  you  see  it's  nobody  there!"  cried  Tre- 
zinie  impatiently. 

La  Fringante,  distracted  between  curiosity 
and  terror,  had  crept  cautiously  back  again. 
Then  they  all  peeped  through  the  wide  chinks 
between  the  logs  of  which  the  cabin  was  built. 

M'sieur  Michel  had  evidently  begun  the  con- 
struction of  his  house  by  felling  a  huge  tree, 
whose  remaining  stump  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  hut,  and  served  him  as  a  table.  This  prim- 
itive table  was  worn  smooth  by  twenty-five 
years  of  use.  Upon  it  were  such  humble  uten- 
sils as  the  man  required.  Everything  within 
the  hovel,  the  sleeping  bunk,  the  one  seat, 
were  as  rude  as  a  savage  would  have  fashioned 
them. 

The  stolid  Cami  could  have  stayed  for  hours 
with  his  eyes  fastened  to  the  aperture,  morbid- 


114  After  the  Winter. 

ly  seeking  some  dead,  mute  sign  of  that  awful 
pastime  with  which  he  believed  M'sieur  Michel 
was  accustomed  to  beguile  his  solitude.  But 
Trezinie  was  wholly  possessed  by  the  thought 
of  her  Easter  offerings.  She  wanted  flowers 
and  flowers,  fresh  with  the  earth  and  crisp  with 
dew. 

When  the  three  youngsters  scampered  down 
the  hill  again  there  was  not  a  purple  verbena 
left  about  M'sieur  Michel's  hut;  not  a  May 
apple  blossom,  not  a  stalk  of  crimson  phlox — 
hardly  a  violet. 

He  was  something  of  a  savage,  feeling  that 
the  solitude  belonged  to  him.  Of  late  there 
had  been  forming  within  his  soul  a  sentiment 
toward  man,  keener  than  indifference,  bitter  as 
hate.  He  was  coming  to  dread  even  that  brief 
intercourse  with  others  into  which  his  traffic 
forced  him. 

So  when  M'sieur  Michel  returned  to  his  hut, 
and  with  his  quick,  accustomed  eye  saw  that 
his  woods  had  been  despoiled,  rage  seized  him. 
It  was  not  that  he  loved  the  flowers  that  were 
gone  more  than  he  loved  the  stars,  or  the  wind 
that  trailed  across  the  hill,  but  they  belonged 
to  and  were  a  part  of  that  life  which  he  had 


After  the  Winter.  115 

made  for  himself,  and  which  he  wanted  to  live 
alone  and  unmolested. 

Did  not  those  flowers  help  him  to  keep  hisj]' 
record  of  time  that  was  passing?  They  had  noj 
right  to  vanish  until  the  hot  May  days  were! 
upon  him.  How  else  should  he  know?  Why 
had  these  people,  with  whom  he  had  nothing  in 
common,  intruded  upon  his  privacy  and  vio- 
lated it?  What  would  they  not  rob  him  of 
next? 

He  knew  well  enough  it  was  Easter;  he  had 
heard  and  seen  signs  yesterday  in  the  store 
that  told  him  so.  And  he  guessed  that  his 
woods  had  been  rifled  to  add  to  the  mummery 
of  the  day. 

M'sieur  Michel  sat  himself  moodily  down 
beside  his  table — centuries  old — and  brooded. 
He  did  not  even  notice  his  hounds  that  were 
pleading  to  be  fed.  As  he  revolved  in  his 
mind  the  event  of  the  morning — innocent  as  it 
was  in  itself — it  grew  in  importance  and  as- 
sumed a  significance  not  at  first  apparent.  He 
could  not  remain  passive  under  pressure  of  its 
disturbance.  He  rose  to  his  feet,  every  im- 
pulse aggressive,  urging  him  to  activity.  He 
would  go  down  among  those  people  all  gath- 


n6  After  the  Winter. 

ered  together,  blacks  and  whites,  and  face  them 
for  once  and  all.  He  did  not  know  what  he 
would  say  to  them,  but  it  would  be  defiance — 
something  to  voice  the  hate  that  oppressed 
him.    . 

The  way  down  the  hill,  then  across  a  piece  of 
flat,  swampy  woodland  and  through  the  lane 
to  the  village  was  so  familiar  that  it  required 
no  attention  from  him  to  follow  it.  His 
thoughts  were  left  free  to  revel  in  the  humor 
that  had  driven  him  from  his  kennel. 

As  he  walked  down  the  village  street  he  saw 
plainly  that  the  place  was  deserted  save  for  the 
appearance  of  an  occasional  negress,  who 
seemed  occupied  with  preparing  the  midday 
meal.  But  about  the  church  scores  of  horses 
were  fastened;  and  M'sieur  Michel  could  see 
that  the  edifice  was  thronged  to  the  very  thres- 
hold. 

He  did  not  once  hesitate,  but  obeying  the 
force  that  impelled  him  to  face  the  people  wher- 
ever they  might  be,  he  was  soon  standing  with 
the  crowd  within  the  entrance  of  the  church. 
His  broad,  robust  shoulders  had  forced  space 
for  himself,  and  his  leonine  head  stood  higher 
than  any  there. 


After  the  Winter.  117 

"Takeoff  yo'  hat!" 

It  was  an  indignant  mulatto  who  addressed 
him.  M'sieur  Michel  instinctively  did  as  he 
was  bidden.  He  saw  confusedly  that  there  was 
a  mass  of  humanity  close  to  him,  whose  con- 
tact and  atmosphere  affected  him  strangely. 
He  saw  his  wild-flowers,  too.  He  saw  them 
plainly,  in  bunches  and  festoons,  among  the 
Easter  lilies  and  roses  and  geraniums.  He  was 
going  to  speak  out,  now;  he  had  the  right  to 
and  he  would,  just  as  soon  as  that  clamor  over- 
head would  cease. 

"Bonte  divine!  M'sieur  Michel!"  whispered 
'Dame  Suzanne  tragically  to  her  neighbor. 
Trezinie  heard.  Cami  saw.  They  exchanged 
an  electric  glance,  and  tremblingly  bowed  their 
heads  low. 

M'sieur  Michel  looked  wrathfully  down  at 
the  puny  mulatto  who  had  ordered  him  to  re- 
move his  hat.  Why  had  he  obeyed?  That 
initial  act  of  compliance  had  somehow  weak- 
ened his  will,  his  resolution.  But  he  would 
regain  firmness  just  as  soon  as  that  clamor 
above  gave  him  chance  to  speak. 

It  was  the  organ  filling  the  small  edifice  with 
volumes  of  sound.     It  was  the  voices  of  men 


n8  After  the  Winter. 

and  women  mingling  in  the  "Gloria  in  excelsis 
Deo!" 

The  words  bore  no  meaning  for  him  apart 
from  the  old  familiar  strain  which  he  had 
known  as  a  child  and  chanted  himself  in  that 
same  organ-loft  years  ago.  How  it  went  on 
and  on!  Would  it  never  cease!  It  was  like 
a  menace;  like  a  voice  reaching  out  from  the 
dead  past  to  taunt  him. 

"Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo!"  over  and  over! 
How  the  deep  basso  rolled  it  out!  How  the 
tenor  and  alto  caught  it  up  and  passed  it  on  to 
be  lifted  by  the  high,  flute-like  ring  of  the  so- 
prano, till  all  mingled  again  in  the  wild  paean, 
"Gloria  in  excelsis!" 

How  insistent  was  the  refrain!  and  where, 
what,  was  that  mysterious,  hidden  quality  in 
it;  the  power  which  was  overcoming  M'sieur 
Michel,  stirring  within  him  a  turmoil  that  be- 
wildered him? 

There  was  no  use  in  trying  to  speak,  or  in 
wanting  to.  His  throat  could  not  have  uttered 
a  sound.  He  wanted  to  escape,  that  was  all. 
'*  Bonae  voluntatis," — he  bent  his  head  as  if  be- 
fore a  beating  storm.  "Gloria!  Gloria!  Glo- 
ria!"    He  must  fly;  he  must  save  himself,  re- 


After  the  Winter.  119 

gain  his  hill  where  sights  and  odors  and  sounds 
and  saints  or  devils  would  cease  to  molest  him. 
"In  excelsis  Deo!"  He  retreated,  forcing  his 
way  backward  to  the  door.  He  dragged  his 
hat  down  over  his  eyes  and  staggered  away 
down  the  road.  But  the  refrain  pursued  him 
— "Pax!  pax!  pax!" — fretting  him  like  a  lash. 
He  did  not  slacken  his  pace  till  the  tones  grew 
fainter  than  an  echo,  floating,  dying  away  in 
an  "in  excelsis!"  When  he  could  hear  it  no 
longer  he  stopped  and  breathed  a  sigh  of  rest 
and  relief. 

III. 

AH  day  long  M'sieur  Michel  stayed  about 
his  hut  engaged  in  some  familiar  employment 
that  he  hoped  might  efface  the  unaccountable 
impressions  of  the  morning.  But  his  restless- 
ness was  unbounded.  A  longing  had  sprung 
up  within  him  as  sharp  as  pain  and  not  to  be 
appeased.  At  once,  on  this  bright,  warm  Easter 
morning  the  voices  that  till  now  had  filled  his 
solitude  became  meaningless.  He  stayed  mute 
and  uncomprehending  before  them.  Their  sig- 
nificance had  vanished  before  the  driving  want 


120  After  the  Winter. 

for  human  sympathy  and  companionship  that 
had  reawakened  in  his  soul. 

When  night  came  on  he  walked  through  the 
woods  down  the  slant  of  the  hill  again. 

"It  mus'  be  all  fill'  up  with  weeds,"  mut- 
tered M'sieur  Michel  to  himself  as  he  went. 
"Ah,  Bon  Dieu!  with  trees,  Michel,  with  trees 
— in  twenty-five  years,  man." 

He  had  not  taken  the  road  to  the  village, 
but  was  pursuing  a  different  one  in  which  his 
feet  had  not  walked  for  many  days.  It  led  him 
along  the  river  bank  for  a  distance.  The  nar- 
row stream,  stirred  by  the  restless  breeze, 
gleamed  in  the  moonlight  that  was  flooding  the 
land. 

As  he  went  on  and  on,  the  scent  of  the  new- 
plowed  earth  that  had  been  from  the  first 
keenly  perceptible,  began  to  intoxicate  him.  He 
wanted  to  kneel  and  bury  his  face  in  it.  He 
wanted  to  dig  into  it;  turn  it  over.  He 
wanted  to  scatter  the  seed  again  as  he  had  done 
long  ago,  and  watch  the  new,  green  life  spring 
up  as  if  at  his  bidding. 

When  he  turned  away  from  the  river,  and 
had  walked  a  piece  down  the  lane  that  divided 
Joe  Duplan's  plantation  from  that  bit  of  land 


After  the  Winter.  121 

that  had  once  been  his,  he  wiped  his  eyes  to 
drive  away  the  mist  that  was  making  him  see 
things  as  they  surely  could  not  be. 

He  had  wanted  to  plant  a  hedge  that  time 
before  he  went  away,  but  he  had  not  done  so. 
Yet  there  was  the  hedge  before  him,  just  as 
he  had  meant  it  to  be,  and  filling  the  night 
with  fragrance.  A  broad,  low  gate  divided 
its  length,  and  over  this  he  leaned  and  looked 
before  him  in  amazement.  There  were  no 
weeds  as  he  had  fancied;  no  trees  except  the 
scattered  live  oaks  that  he  remembered. 

Could  that  row  of  hardy  fig  trees,  old,  squat 
and  gnarled,  be  the  twigs  that  he  himself  had 
set  one  day  into  the  ground?  One  raw  De- 
cember day  when  there  was  a  fine,  cold  mist 
falling.  The  chill  of  it  breathed  again  upon 
him;  the  memory  was  so  real.  The  land  did 
not  look  as  if  it  ever  had  been  plowed  for  a 
field.  It  was  a  smooth,  green  meadow,  with 
cattle  huddled  upon  the  cool  sward,  or  mov- 
ing with  slow,  stately  tread  as  they  nibbled  the 
tender  shoots. 

There  was  the  house  unchanged,  gleaming 
white  in  the  moon,  seeming  to  invite  him  be- 
neath its  calm  shelter.       He  wondered  who 


122  After  the  Winter. 

dwelt  within  it  now.  Whoever  it  was  he  would 
not  have  them  find  him,  like  a  prowler,  there 
at  the  gate.  But  he  would  come  again  and 
again  like  this  at  nighttime,  to  gaze  and  refresh 
his  spirit. 

A  hand  had  been  laid  upon  M'sieur  Michel's 
shoulder  and  some  one  called  his  name.  Star- 
tled, he  turned  to  see  who  accosted  him. 

"Duplan!" 

The  two  men  who  had  not  exchanged  speech 
for  so  many  years  stood  facing  each  other  for 
a  long  moment  in  silence. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  back  some  day, 
Michel.  It  was  a  long  time  to  wait,  but  you 
have  come  home  at  last." 

M'sieur  Michel  cowered  instinctively  and 
lifted  his  hands  with  expressive  deprecatory 
gesture.  "No,  no;  it's  no  place  for  me,  Joe; 
no  place!" 

"Isn't  a  man's  home  a  place  for  him,  Mich- 
el?" It  seemed  less  a  question  than  an  asser- 
tion, charged  with  gentle  authority. 

"Twenty-five  years,  Duplan;  twenty-five 
years!     It's  no  use;  it's  too  late." 

"You  see,  I  have  used  it,"  went  on  the  plant- 
er, quietly,  ignoring  M'sieur  Michel's  protesta- 


After  the  Winter.  123 

tions.  "Those  are  my  cattle  grazing  off  there. 
The  house  has  served  me  many  a  time  to  lodge 
guests  or  workmen,  for  whom  I  had  no  room 
at  Les  Cheniers.  I  have  not  exhausted  the 
soil  with  any  crops.  I  had  not  the  right  to 
do  that.  Yet  am  I  in  your  debt,  Michel,  and 
ready  to  settle  en  bon  ami." 
~Tne~pTanter 'had  opened  the  gate  and  en- 
tered the  inclosure,  leading  M'sieur  Michel 
with  him.  Together  they  walked  toward  the 
house. 

Language  did  not  come  readily  to  either — 
one  so  unaccustomed  to  hold  intercourse  with 
men;  both  so  stirred  with  memories  that  would 
have  rendered  any  speech  painful.  When  they 
had  stayed  long  in  a  silence  which  was  elo- 
quent of  tenderness,  Joe  Duplan  spoke: 

"You  know  how  I  tried  to  see  you,  Michel, 
to  speak  with  you,  and  you  never  would." 

M'sieur  Michel  answered  with  but  a  gesture 
that  seemed  a  supplication. 

"Let  the  past  all  go,  Michel.  Begin  your 
new  life  as  if  the  twenty-five  years  that  are 
gone  had  been  a  long  night,  from  which  you 
have  only  awakened.  Come  to  me  in  the 
morning,"  he  added  with  quick  resolution,  "for 


124  After  the  Winter. 

a  horse  and  a  plow."  He  had  taken  the  key 
of  the  house  from  his  pocket  and  placed  it  in 
M'sieur  Michel's  hand. 

"A  horse?"  M'sieur  Michel  repeated  uncer- 
tainly; "a  plow!  Oh,  it's  too  late,  Duplan;  too 
late." 

"It  isn't  too  late.  The  land  has  rested  all 
these  years,  man;  it's  fresh,  I  tell  you;  and  rich 
as  gold.  Your  crop  will  be  the  finest  in  the 
land."  He  held  out  his  hand  and  M'sieur 
Michel  pressed  it  without  a  word  in  reply, 
save  a  muttered  "Mon  ami." 

Then  he  stood  there  watching  the  planter 
disappear  behind  the  high,  clipped  hedge. 

He  held  out  his  arms.  He  could  not  have 
told  if  it  was  toward  the  retreating  figure,  or  in 
welcome  to  an  infinite  peace  that  seemed  to 
descend  upon  him  and  envelop   him. 

All  the  land  was  radiant  except  the  hill  far 
off  that  was  in  black  shadow  against  the  sky. 


Polydore 


Polyd 


ore 

IT  was  often  said  that  Polydore  was  the 
stupidest  boy  to  be  found  "from  the 
mouth  of  Cane  river  plumb  to  Natchi- 
toches." Hence  it  was  an  easy  matter  to  per- 
suade him,  as  meddlesome  and  mischievous 
people  sometimes  tried  to  do,  that  he  was  an 
overworked  and  much  abused  individual. 

It  occurred  one  morning  to  Polydore  to 
wonder  what  would  happen  if  he  did  not  get 
up.  He  hardly  expected  the  world  to  stop 
turning  on  its  axis;  but  he  did  in  a  way  believe 
that  the  machinery  of  the  whole  plantation 
would  come  to  a  standstill. 

He  had  awakened  at  the  usual  hour, — about 
daybreak, — and  instead  of  getting  up  at  once, 
as  was  his  custom,  he  re-settled  himself  be- 
tween the  sheets.  There  he  lay,  peering  out 
through  the  dormer  window  into  the  gray 
morning  that  was  deliciously  cool  after  the  hot 

127 


128  Polydore. 

summer  night,  listening  to  familiar  sounds  that 
came  from  the  barn-yard,  the  fields  and  woods 
beyond,  heralding  the  approach  of  day. 

A  little  later  there  were  other  sounds,  no 
less  familiar  or  significant;  the  roll  of  the  wag- 
on-wheels; the  distant  call  of  a  negro's  voice; 
Aunt  Siney's  shuffling  step  as  she  crossed  the 
gallery,  bearing  to  Mamzelle  Adelaide  and  old 
Monsieur  Jose  their  early  coffee. 

Polydore  had  formed  no  plan  and  had 
thought  only  vaguely  upon  results.  He  lay  in  a 
half-slumber  awaiting  developments,  and  phil- 
osophically resigned  to  any  turn  which  the 
affair  might  take.  Still  he  was  not  quite  ready 
with  an  answer  when  Jude  came  and  thrust 
his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Mista  Polydore!  O  Mista  Polydore!  You 
'sleep?" 

"Wat  you  want?" 

"Dan  'low  he  ain'  gwine  wait  yonda  wid  de 
wagon  all  day.  Say  does  you  inspect  'im  to 
pack  dat  freight  f'om  de  landing  by  hisse'f?" 

"I  reckon  he  got  it  to  do,  Jude.  I  ain'  go- 
ing to  get  up,  me." 

"You  ain'  gwine  git  up?" 


Polydore.  129 

"No;  I'm  sick.  I'm  going  stay  in  bed.  Go 
'long  and  le'  me  sleep." 

The  next  one  to  invade  Polydore's  privacy 
was  Mamzelle  Adelaide  herself.  It  was  no 
small  effort  for  her  to  mount  the  steep,  nar- 
row stairway  to  Polydore's  room.  She  seldom 
penetrated  to  these  regions  under  the  roof.  He 
could  hear  the  stairs  creak  beneath  her  weight, 
and  knew  that  she  was  panting  at  every  step. 
Her  presence  seemed  to  crowd  the  small  room; 
for  she  was  stout  and  rather  tall,  and  her  flow- 
ing muslin  wrapper  swept  majestically  from 
side  to  side  as  she  walked. 

Mamzelle  Adelaide  had  reached  middle  age, 
but  her  face  was  still  fresh  with  its  mignon 
features;  and  her  brown  eyes  at  the  moment 
were  round  with  astonishment  and  alarm. 

" Wat's  that  I  hear,  Polydore?  They  tell 
me  you're  sick!"  She  went  and  stood  beside 
the  bed,  lifting  the  mosquito  bar  that  settled 
upon  her  head  and  fell  about  her  like  a  veil. 

Polydore's  eyes  blinked,  and  he  made  no  at- 
tempt to  answer.  She  felt  his  wrist  softly  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  and  rested  her  hand  for 
a  moment  on  his  low  forehead  beneath  the 
shock  of  black  hair. 


1 30  Polydore. 

"But  you  don't  seem  to  have  any  fever, 
Polydore!" 

"No,"  hesitatingly,  feeling  himself  forced  to 
make  some  reply.  "It's  a  kine  of — a  kine  of 
pain,  like  you  might  say.  It  kitch  me  yere  in 
the  knee,  and  it  goes  'long  like  you  stickin' 
a  knife  clean  down  in  my  heel.  Aie!  Oh,  la- 
la!"  expressions  of  pain  wrung  from  him  by 
Mamzelle  Adelaide  gently  pushing  aside  the 
covering  to  examine  the  afflicted  'member. 

"My  patience!  but  that  leg  is  swollen,  yes, 
Polydore."  The  limb,  in  fact,  seemed  drop- 
sical, but  if  Mamzelle  Adelaide  had  bethought 
her  of  comparing  it  with  the  other  one,  she 
would  have  found  the  two  corresponding  in 
their  proportions  to  a  nicety.  Her  kind  face 
expressed  the  utmost  concern,  and  she  quitted 
Polydore  feeling  pained  and  ill  at  ease. 

For  one  of  the  aims  of  Mamzelle  Adelaide's 
existence  was  to  do  the  right  thing  by  this  boy, 
whose  mother,  a  'Cadian  hill  woman,  had 
begged  her  with  dying  breath  to  watch  over 
the  temporal  and  spiritual  welfare  of  her  son; 
above  all,  to  see  that  he  did  not  follow  in  the 
slothful  footsteps  of  an  over-indolent  father. 


Polydore.  131 

Polydore's  scheme  worked  so  marvellously 
to  his  comfort  and  pleasure  that  he  wondered 
at  not  having  thought  of  it  before.  He  ate 
with  keen  relish  the  breakfast  which  Jude 
brought  to  him  on  a  tray.  Even  old  Monsieur 
Jose  was  concerned,  and  made  his  way  up  to 
Polydore,  bringing  a  number  of  picture-papers 
for  his  entertainment,  a  palm-leaf  fan  and  a 
cow-bell,  with  which  to  summon  Jude  when 
necessary  and  which  he  placed  within  easy 
reach. 

As  Polydore  lay  on  his  back  fanning  luxuri- 
ously, it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  enjoying 
a  foretaste  of  paradise.  Only  once  did  he 
shudder  with  apprehension.  It  was  when  he 
heard  Aunt  Siney,  with  lifted  voice,  recom- 
mending to  "wrop  the  laig  up  in  bacon  fat; 
de  oniest  way  to  draw  out  de  misery." 

The  thought  of  a  healthy  leg  swathed  in 
bacon  fat  on  a  hot  day  in  July  was  enough  to 
intimidate  a  braver  heart  than  Polydore's. 
But  the  suggestion  was  evidently  not  adopted, 
for  he  heard  no  more  of  the  bacon  fat.  In 
its  stead  he  became  acquainted  with  the  not 
unpleasant  sting  of  a  soothing  liniment  which 


132  Polydore. 

Jude  rubbed  into  the  leg  at  intervals  during 
the  day. 

He  kept  the  limb  propped  on  a  pillow,  stiff 
and  motionless,  even  when  alone  and  unob- 
served.      Toward  evening  he  fancied  that  it 
•really  showed  signs  of  inflammation,  and  he 
was  quite  sure  it  pained  him. 

It  was  a  satisfaction  to  all  to  see  Polydore 
appear  down-stairs  the  following  afternoon.  He 
limped  painfully,  it  is  true,  and  clutched  wildly 
at  anything  in  his  way  that  offered  a  moment- 
ary support.  His  acting  was  clumsily  over- 
drawn; and  by  less  guileless  souls  than  Mam- 
zelle  Adelaide  and  her  father  would  have  surely 
been  suspected.  But  these  two  only  thought 
with  deep  concern  of  means  to  make  him  com- 
fortable. 

They  seated  him  on  the  shady  back  gallery 
in  an  easy-chair,  with  his  leg  propped  up  be- 
fore him. 

"He  inhe'its  dat  rheumatism,"  proclaimed 
Aunt  Siney,  who  affected  the  manner  of  an 
oracle.  "I  see  dat  boy's  granpap,  many  times, 
all  twis'  up  wid  rheumatism  twell  his  head  sot 
down  on  his  body,  hine  side  befo'.    He  got 


Polydore.  133 

to  keep  outen  de  jew  in  de  mo'nin's,  and  he 
'bleege  to  w'ar  red  flannen." 

Monsieur  Jose,  with  flowing  white  locks  en- 
framing his  aged  face,  leaned  upon  his  cane 
and  contemplated  the  boy  with  unflagging  at- 
tention. Polydore  was  beginning  to  believe 
himself  a  worthy  object  as  a  center  of  interest. 

Mamzelle  Adelaide  had  but  just  returned 
from  a  long  drive  in  the  open  buggy,  from  a 
mission  which  would  have  fallen  to  Polydore 
had  he  not  been  disabtedrt)y  tTiis  unlooked-for 
illness.  She  had  thoughtlessly  driven  across 
the  country  at  an  hour  when  the  sun  was  hot- 
test, and  now  she  sat  panting  and  fanning 
herself;  her  face,  which  she  mopped  incessantly 
with  her  handkerchief,  was  inflamed  from  the 
heat. 

Mamzelle  Adelaide  ate  no  supper  that  night, 
and  went  to  bed  early,  with  a  compress  of  eau 
sedative  bound  tightly  around  her  head.  She 
thought  it  was  a  simple  headache,  and  that  she 
would  be  rid  of  it  in  the  morning;  but  she  was 
not  better  in  the  morning. 

She  kept  her  bed  that  day,  and  late  in  the 
afternoon  Jude  rode  over  to  town  for  the  doc- 
tor, and  stopped  on  the  way  to  tell  Mamzelle 


134  Polydore. 

Adelaide's  married  sister  that  she  was  quite  ill, 
and  would  like  to  have  her  come  down  to  the 
plantation  for  a  day  or  two. 

Polydore  made  round,  serious  eyes  and  for- 
got to  limp.  He  wanted  to  go  for  the  doctor 
in  Jude's  stead;  but  Aunt  Siney,  assuming  a 
brief  authority,  forced  him  to  sit  still  by  the 
kitchen  door  and  talked  further  of  bacon  fat. 

Old  Monsieur  Jose  moved  about  uneasily 
and  restlessly,  in  and  out  of  his  daughter's 
room.  He  looked  vacantly  at  Polydore  now, 
as  if  the  stout  young  boy  in  blue  jeans  and 
a  calico  shirt  were  a  sort  of  a  transparency. 

A  dawning  anxiety,  coupled  to  the  inertia  of 
the  past  two  days,  deprived  Polydore  of  his 
usual  healthful  night's  rest.  The  slightest 
noises  awoke  him.  Once  it  was  the  married 
sister  breaking  ice  down  on  the  gallery.  One 
of  the  hands  had  been  sent  with  the  cart  for 
ice  late  in  the  afternoon;  and  Polydore  him- 
self had  wrapped  the  huge  chunk  in  an  old 
blanket  and  set  it  outside  of  Mamzelle  Ade- 
laide's door. 

Troubled  and  wakeful,  he  arose  from  bed 
and  went  and  stood  by  the  open  window. 
There  was  a  round  moon  in  the  sky,  shedding 


Polydore.  135 

its  pale  glamor  over  all  the  country;  and  the 
live-oak  branches,  stirred  by  the  restless 
breeze,  flung  quivering,  grotesque  shadows 
slanting  across  the  old  roof.  A  mocking-bird 
had  been  singing  for  hours  near  Polydore's 
window,  and  farther  away  there  were  frogs 
croaking.  He  could  see  as  through  a  silvery 
gauze  the  level  stretch  of  the  cotton-field,  ripe 
and  white;  a  gleam  of  water  beyond, — that  was 
the  bend  of  the  river, — 'and  farther  yet,  the 
gentle  rise  of  the  pine  hill. 

There  was  a  cabin  up  there  on  the  hill  that 
Polydore  remembered  well.  Negroes  were 
living  in  it  now,  but  it  had  been  his  home  once. 
Life  had  been  pinched  and  wretched  enough 
up  there  with  the  little  chap.  The  bright  days 
had  been  the  days  when  his  godmother,  Mam- 
zelle  Adelaide,  would  come  driving  her  old 
white  horse  over  the  pine  needles  and  crack- 
ling fallen  twigs  of  the  deserted  hill-road.  Her 
presence  was  connected  with  the  earliest  recol- 
lections of  whatever  he  had  known  of  com- 
fort and  well-being. 

And  one  day  when  death  had  taken  his 
mother  from  him,  Mamzelle  Adelaide  had 
brought  him  home  to  live  with  her  always. 


136  Polydore. 

Now  she  was  sick  down  there  in  her  room; 
very  sick,  for  the  doctor  had  said  so,  and  the 
married  sister  had  put  on  her  longest  face. 

Polydore  did  not  think  of  these  things  in 
any  connected  or  very  intelligent  way.  They 
were  only  impressions  that  penetrated  him  and 
made  his  heart  swell,  and  the  tears  well  up  to 
his  eyes.  He  wiped  his  eyes  on  the  sleeve  of 
his  night-gown.  The  mosquitoes  were  sting- 
ing him  and  raising  great  welts  on  his  brown 
legs.  He  went  and  crept  back  under  the  mos- 
quito-bar, and  soon  he  was  asleep  and  dream- 
ing that  his  nenaine  was  dead  and  he  left  alone 
in  the  cabin  upon  the  pine  hill. 

In  the  morning,  after  the  doctor  had  seen 
Mamzelle  Adelaide,  he  went  and  turned  his 
horse  into  the  lot  and  prepared  to  stay  with  his 
patient  until  he  could  feel  it  would  be  prudent 
to  leave  her. 

Polydore  tiptoed  into  her  room  and  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed.  Nobody  noticed  now 
whether  he  limped  or  not.  She  was  talking 
very  loud,  and  he  could  not  believe  at  first  that 
she  could  be  as  ill  as  they  said,  with  such 
strength  of  voice.     But  her  tones  were  unna- 


Polydore.  137 

tural,  and  what  she  said  conveyed  no  meaning 
to  his  ears. 

He  understood,  however,  when  she  thought 
she  was  talking  to  his  mother.  She  was  in  a 
manner  apologizing  for  his  illness ;  and  seemed 
to  be  troubled  with  tihe  idea  that  she  had  in  a 
way  been  the  indirect  cause  of  it  by  some  over- 
sight or  neglect. 

Polydore  felt  ashamed,  and  went  outside  and 
stood  by  himself  near  the  cistern  till  some  one 
told  him  to  go  and  attend  to  the  doctor's 
horse. 

Then  there  was  confusion  in  the  household, 
when  mornings  and  afternoons  seemed  turned 
around;  and  meals,  which  were  scarcely  tasted, 
were  served  at  irregular  and  unseasonable 
hours.  And  there  came  one  awful  night,  when 
they  did  not  know  if  Mamzelle  Adelaide  would 
live  or  die. 

Nobody  slept.  The  doctor  snatched  mo- 
ments of  rest  in  the  hammock.  He  and  the 
priest,  who  had  been  summoned,  talked  a  little 
together  with  professional  callousness  about 
the  dry  weather  and  the  crops. 

Old  monsieur  walked,  walked,  like  a  rest- 
less, caged  animal.  The  married  sister  came  out 


138  Polydore. 

on  the  gallery  every  now  and  then  and  leaned 
up  against  the  post  and  sobbed  in  her  hand- 
kerchief. There  were  many  negroes  around, 
sitting  on  the  steps  and  standing  in  small 
groups  in  the  yard. 

Polydore  crouched  on  the  gallery.  It  had 
finally  come  to  him  to  comprehend  the  cause 
of  his  nenaine's  sickness — that  drive  in  the 
sweltering  afternoon,  when  he  was  shamming 
illness.  No  one  there  could  have  compre- 
hended the  horror  of  himself,  the  terror  that 
possessed  him,  squatting  there  outside  her  door 
like  a  savage.  If  she  died — but  he  could  not 
think  of  that.  It  was  the  point  at  which  his 
reason  was  stunned  and  seemed  to  swoon. 

A  week  or  two  later  Mamzelle  Adelaide  was 
sitting  outside  for  the  first  time  since  her  con- 
valescence began.  They  had  brought  her  own 
rocker  around  to  the  side  where  she  could  get 
a  sight  and  whiff  of  the  flower-garden  and  the 
blossom-laden  rose-vine  twining  in  and  out  of 
the  banisters.  Her  former  plumpness  had  not 
yet  returned,  and  she  looked  much  older,  for 
the  wrinkles  were  visible. 


Polydore.  139 

She  was  watching  Polydore  cross  the  yard. 
He  had  been  putting  up  his  pony.  He  ap- 
proached with  his  heavy,  clumsy  walk;  ,his 
round,  simple  face  was  hot  and  flushed  from 
the  ride.  When  he  had  mounted  to  the  gal- 
lery he  went  and  leaned  against  the  railing, 
facing  Mamzelle  Adelaide,  mopping  his  face, 
his  hands  and  neck  with  his  handkerchief. 
Then  he  removed  his  hat  and  began  to  fan 
himself  with  it. 

"You  seem  to  be  perfec'ly  cu'ed  of  yo'  rheu- 
matism, Polydore.  It  doesn'  hurt  you  any 
mo',  my  boy?"  she  questioned. 

He  stamped  the  foot  and  extended  the  leg 
violently,  in  proof  of  its  perfect  soundness. 

"You  know  w'ere  I  been,  nenaine?"\iz  said. 
"I  been  to  confession." 

"That's  right.  Now  you  mus'  rememba  and 
not  take  a  drink  of  water  to-morrow  morning, 
as  you  did  las'  time,  and  miss  yo'  communion, 
my  boy.  You  are  a  good  child,  Polydore,  to 
go  like  that  to  confession  without  bein  told." 

"No,  I  ain'  good,"  he  returned,  doggedly. 
He  began  to  twirl  his  hat  on  one  finger.  "Pere 
Cassimelle  say  he  always  yeard  I  was  stupid, 
but  he  never  knew  befo'  how  bad  I  been." 


140  Polydore. 

"Indeed!"  muttered  Mamzelle  Adelaide,  not 
over  well  pleased  with  the  priest's  estimate  of 
her  protege. 

"He  gave  me  a  long  penance,"  continued 
Polydore.  "The  'Litany  of  the  Saint'  and  the 
'Litany  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,'  and  three  'Our 
Father'  and  three  'Hail  Mary'  to  say  ev'ry 
mo'ning  fo'  a  week.  But  he  say'  that  ain' 
enough." 

"My  patience!  Wat  does  he  expec'  mo' 
from  you,  I  like  to  know?"  Polydore  was  now 
creasing  and  scanning  his  hat  attentively. 

"He  say'  w'at  I  need,  it's  to  be  wo'  out  with 
the  raw-hide.  He  say'  he  knows  M'sieur  Jose 
is  too  ole  and  feeble  to  give  it  to  me  like  I  de- 
serve; and  if  you  want,  he  say'  he's  willing  to 
give  me  a  good  tas'e  of  the  raw-hide  himse'f." 

Mamzelle  Adelaide  found  it  impossible  to 
disguise  her  indignation: 

"Pere  Cassimelle  sho'ly  fo'gets  himse'f,  Poly- 
dore. Don't  repeat  to  me  any  further  his  in- 
consid'ate  remarks." 

"He's  right,  nenaine.  Pere  Cassimelle  is 
right." 


Polydore.  141 

Since  the  night  he  crouched  outside  her 
door,  Polydore  had  lived  with  the  weight,  of 
his  uncohfessed  fault  oppressing  every  moment 
of  existence.  He  had  tried  to  rid  himself  of'it 
in  going  to  Father  Cassimelle ;  but  that  had 
only  helped  by  indicating  the  way.  He  was 
awkward  and  unaccustomed  to  express  emo- 
tions with  coherent  speech.  The  words  would 
not  come. 

Suddenly  he  flung  his  hat  to  the  ground, 
and  falling  on  his  knees,  began  to  sob,  with  his 
face  pressed  down  in  Mamzelle  Adelaide's  lap. 
She  had  never  seen  him  cry  before,  and  in  her 
weak  condition  it  made  her  tremble. 

Then  somehow  he  got  it  out;  he  told  the 
whole  story  of  his  deceit.  He  told  it  simply, 
in  a  way  that  bared  his  heart  to  her  for  the 
first  time.  She  said  nothing;  only  held  his 
hand  close  and  stroked  his  hair.  But  she  felt 
as  if  a  kind  of  miracle  had  happened.  Hitherto 
.her  first  thought  in  caring  for  this  boy  had 
been  a  desire  to  fulfill  his  dead  mother's  wishes. 

But  now  he  seemed  to  belong  to  herself  and 
to  be  her  very  own.     She  knew  that  a  bond  of 
rov^T¥aXT^ 
together  always. 


142  Polydore. 

"I  know  I  can't  he'p  being  stupid,"  sighed 
Polydore,  "but  it's  no  call  fo'  me  to  be  bad." 

"Neva  mine,  Polydore;  neva  mine,  my  boy," 
and  she  drew  him  close  to  her  and  kissed  him 
as  mothers  kiss. 


Regret 


Regret 


MAMZELLE  Aurelie  possessed  a  good 
strong  figure,  ruddy  cheeks,  hair  that 
was  changing  from  brown  to  gray,  and 
a  determined  eye.  She  wore  a  man's  hat 
about  the  farm,  and  an  old  blue  army  over- 
coat when  it  was  cold,  and  sometimes  top- 
boots. 

Mamzelle  Aurelie  had  never  thought  of  mar- 
rying. She  had  never  been  in  love.  At  the 
age  of  twenty  she  had  received  a  proposal, 
which  she  had  promptly  declined,  and  at  the 
age  of  fifty  she  had  not  yet  lived  to  regret  it. 

So  she  was  quite  alone  in  the  world,  ex- 
cept for  her  dog  Ponto,  and  the  negroes  who 
lived  in  her  cabins  and  worked  her  crops,  and 
the  fowls,  a  few  cows,  a  couple  of  mules,  her 
gun  (with  which  she  shot  chicken-hawks),  and 
her  religion. 

One  morning  Mamzelle  Aurelie  stood  upon 
her  gallery,  contemplating,  with  arms  akimbo, 

145 


146  Regret. 

a  small  band  of  very  small  children  who,  to  all 
intents  and  purposes,  might  have  fallen  from 
the  clouds,  so  unexpected  and  bewildering 
was  their  coming,  and  so  unwelcome.  They 
were  the  children  of  her  nearest  neighbor, 
Odile,  who  was  not  such  a  near  neighbor,  after 
all. 

The  young  woman  had  appeared  but  five 
minutes  before,  accompanied  by  these  four  chil- 
dren. In  her  arms  she  carried  little  Elodie; 
she  dragged  Ti  Nomme  by  an  unwilling  hand; 
while  Marceline  and  Marcelette  followed  with 
irresolute  steps. 

Her  face  was  red  and  disfigured  from  tears 
and  excitement.  She  had  been  summoned  to 
a  neighboring  parish  by  the  dangerous  illness 
of  her  mother;  her  husband  was  away  in  Texas 
— it  seemed  to  her  a  million  miles  away;  and 
Valsin  was  waiting  with  the  mule-cart  to  drive 
her  to  the  station. 

"It's  no  question,  Mamzelle  Aurelie;  you  jus' 
got  to  keep  those  youngsters  fo'  me  tell  I 
come  back.  Dieu  sait,  I  would  n'  botha  you 
with  'em  if  it  was  any  otha  way  to  do!  Make 
'em  mine  you,  Mamzelle  Aurelie;  don'  spare 
'em.     Me,  there,  I'm  half  crazy  between  the 


Regret.  147 

chirr-en,  an'  Leon  not  home,  an'  maybe  not 
even  to  fine  po'  maman  alive  encore!" — a  har- 
rowing possibility  which  drove  Odile  to  take 
a  final  hasty  and  convulsive  leave  of  her  dis- 
consolate family. 

She  left  them  crowded  into  the  narrow  strip 
of  shade  on  the  porch  of  the  long,  low  house; 
the  white  sunlight  was  beating  in  on  the  white 
old  boards;  some  chickens  were  scratching  in 
the  grass  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and  one  had 
boldly  mounted,  and  was  stepping  heavily, 
solemnly,  and  aimlessly  across  the  gallery. 
There  was  a  pleasant  odor  of  pinks  in  the  air, 
and  the  sound  of  negroes'  laughter  was  coming 
across  the  flowering  cotton-field. 

Mamzelle  Aurelie  stood  contemplating  the 
children.  She  looked  with  a  critical  eye  upon 
Marceline,  who  had  been  left  staggering  be- 
neath the  weight  of  the  chubby  Elodie.  She 
surveyed  with  the  same  calculating  air  Mar- 
celette  mingling  her  silent  tears  with  the  au- 
dible grief  and  rebellion  of  Ti  Nomine.  Dur- 
ing those  few  contemplative  moments  she  was 
collecting  herself,  determining  upon  a  line  of 
action  which  should  be  identical  with  a  line 
of  duty.     She  began  by  feeding  them. 


148  Regret. 

If  Mamzelle  Aurelie's  responsibilities  might 
have  begun  and  ended  there,  they  could  easily 
have  been  dismissed;  for  her  larder  was  amply 
provided  against  an  emergency  of  this  nature. 
But  little  children  are  not  little  pigs;  they  re- 
quire and  demand  attentions  which  were  wholly 
unexpected  by  Mamzelle  Aurelie,  and  which 
she  was  ill  prepared  to  give. 

She  was,  indeed,  very  inapt  in  her  manage- 
ment of  Odile's  children  during  the  first  few 
days.  How  could  she  know  that  Marcelette 
always  wept  when  spoken  to  in  a  loud  and 
commanding  tone  of  voice?  It  was  a  peculi- 
arity of  Marcelette's.  She  became  acquainted 
with  Ti  Nomme's  passion  for  flowers  only 
when  he  had  plucked  all  the  choicest  gardenias 
and  pinks  for  the  apparent  purpose  of  critically 
studying  their  botanical  construction. 

'"Tain't  enough  to  tell  'im,  Mamzelle  Aure- 
lie," Marceline  instructed  her;  "you  got  to  tie 
'im  in  a  chair.  *  It's  w'at  maman  all  time  do 
w'en  he's  bad:  she  tie  'im  in  a  chair."  The 
chair  in  which  Mamzelle  Aurelie  tied  Ti 
Nomme  was  roomy  and  comfortable,  and  he 
seized  the  opportunity  to  take  a  nap  in  it,  the 
afternoon  being  warm. 


Regret.  149 

At  night,  when  she  ordered  them  one  and 
all  to  bed  as  she  would  have  shooed  the  chick- 
ens into  the  hen-house,  they  stayed  uncompre- 
hending before  her.  What  about  the  little 
white  nightgowns  that  had  to  be  taken  from 
the  pillow-slip  in  which  they  were  brought 
over,  and  shaken  by  some  strong  hand  till  they 
snapped  like  ox- whips?  What  about  the  tub 
of  water  which  had  to  be  brought  and  set  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  in  which  the  little  tired, 
dusty,  sunbrowned  feet  had  every  one  to  be 
washed  sweet  and  clean?  And  it  made  Mar- 
celine  and  Marcelette  laugh  merrily — the  idea 
that  Mamzelle  Aurelie  should  for  a  moment 
have  believed  that  Ti  Nornme  could  fall  asleep 
without  being  told  the  story  of  Croque-mitaine 
or  Louft-garon,  or  both;  or  that  Elodie  could 
fall  asleep  at  all  without  being  rocked  and  sung 
to. 

"I  tell  you,  Aunt  Ruby,"  Mamzelle  Aurelie 
informed  her  cook  in  confidence;  "me,  I'd 
rather  manage  a  dozen  plantation'  than  fo'  chil- 
'ren.  It's  terrassent!  Bonte!  Don't  talk  to 
me  about  chil'ren!" 

"'Tain'  ispected  sich  as  you  would  know 
airy  thing  'bout  'em,  Mamzelle  Aurelie.     I  see 


1 50  Regret. 

dat  plainly  yistiddy  w'en  I  spy  dat  li'le  chile 
playin'  wid  yo'  baskit  o'  keys.  You  don'  know 
dat  makes  chillun  grow  up  hard-headed,  to 
play  wid  keys?  Des  like  it  make  'em  teeth 
hard  to  look  in  a  lookin'-glass.-  Them's  the 
things  you  got  to  know  in  the  raisin'  an'  man- 
igement  o'  chillun." 

Mamzelle  Aurelie  certainly  did  not  pretend 
or  aspire  to  such  subtle  and  far-reaching 
knowledge  on  the  subject  as  Aunt  Ruby  pos- 
sessed, who  had  "raised  five  an'  bared  (buried) 
six"  in  her  day.  She  was  glad  enough  to  learn 
a  few  little  mother-tricks  to  serve  the  moment's 
need. 

Ti  Nomme's  sticky  fingers  compelled  her  to 
unearth  white  aprons  that  she  had  not  worn 
for  years,  and  she  had  to  accustom  herself  to 
his  moist  kisses — the  expressions  of  an  affec- 
tionate and  exuberant  nature.  She  got  down 
her  sewing-basket,  which  she  seldom  used,  from 
the  top  shelf  of  the  armoire,and  placed  it  within 
the  ready  and  easy  reach  which  torn  slips  and 
buttonless  waists  demanded.  It  took  her  some 
days  to  become  accustomed  to  the  laughing, 
the  crying,  the  chattering  that  echoed  through 
the  house  and  around  it  all  day  long.     And  it 


Regret.  1 5 1 

was  not  the  first  or  the  second  night  that  she 
could  sleep  comfortably  with  little  Elodie's  hot, 
plump  body  pressed  close  against  her,  and  the 
little  one's  warm  breath  beating  her  cheek  like 
the  fanning  of  a  bird's  wing. 

But  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  Mamzelle  Au- 
relie had  grown  quite  used  to  these  things,  and 
she  no  longer  complained. 

It  was  also  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  that 
Mamzelle  Aurelie,  one  evening,  looking  away 
toward  the  crib  where  the  cattle  were  being 
fed,  saw  Valsin's  blue  cart  turning  the  bend 
of  the  road.  Odile  sat  beside  the  mulatto,  up- 
right and  alert.  As  they  drew  near,  the  young 
woman's  beaming  face  indicated  that  her  home- 
coming was  a  happy  one. 

But  this  coming,  unannounced  and  unex- 
pected, threw  Mamzelle  Aurelie  into  a  flutter 
that  was  almost  agitation.  The  children  had 
to  be  gathered.  Where  was  Ti  Nomme?  Yon- 
der in  the  shed,  putting  an  edge  on  his  knife 
at  the  grindstone.  And  Marceline  and  Mar- 
cel ette?  Cutting  ana  fasnioning  doll-rags  in 
the  corner  of  the  gallery.  As  for  Elodie,  sLe 
was  safe  enough  in  Mamzelle  Aurelie's  arms; 
and  she  had  screamed  with  delight  at  sight  of 


1 5  2  Regret. 

the  familiar  blue  cart  which  was  bringing  her 
mother  back  to  her. 

The  excitement  was  all  over,  and  they  were 
gone.  How  still  it  was  when  they  were  gone! 
Mamzelle  Aurelie  stood  upon  the  gallery,  look- 
ing and  listening.  She  could  no  longer  see  the 
cart;  the  red  sunset  and  the  blue-gray  twilight 
had  together  flung  a  purple  mist  across  the 
fields  and  road  that  hid  it  from  her  view.  She 
could  no  longer  hear  the  wheezing  and  creak- 
ing of  its  wheels.  But  she  could  still  faintly 
hear  the  shrill,  glad  voices  of  the  children. 

She  turned  into  the  house.  There  was  much 
work  awaiting  her,  for  the  children  had  left  a 
sad  disorder  behind  them;  but  she  did  not  at 
once  set  about  the  task  of  righting  it.  Mam- 
zelle Aurelie  seated  herself  beside  the  table. 
She  gave  one  slow  glance  through  the  room, 
into  which  the  evening  shadows  were  creep- 
ing and  deepening  around  her  solitary  figure. 
She  let  her  head  fall  down  upon  her  bended 
arm,  and  began  to  cry.  Oh,  but  she  cried! 
Not  softly,  as  women  oftcii  do.  She  cried  like 
a  I3&S,  with  sobs  that  seemed  to  tear  her  very 
soul.  She  did  not  notice  Ponto  licking  her 
hand. 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice 

MADAME  Carambeau  wanted  it  strictly 
understood  that  she  was  not  to  be 
disturbed  by  Gustave's  birthday  party. 
They  carried  her  big  rocking-chair  from  the 
back  gallery,  that  looked  out  upon  the  garden 
where  the  children  were  going  to  play,  around 
to  the  front  gallery,  which  closely  faced  the 
green  levee  bank  and  the  Mississippi  coursing 
almost  flush  with  the  top  of  it. 

The  house — an  old  Spanish  one,  broad,  low 
and  completely  encircled  by  a  wide  gallery — 
was  far  down  in  the  French  quarter  of  New 
Orleans.  It  stood  upon  a  square  of  ground 
that  was  covered  thick  with  a  semi-tropical 
growth  of  plants  and  flowers.  An  impenetra- 
ble board  fence,  edged  with  a  formidable  row 
of  iron  spikes,  shielded  the  garden  from  the 
prying  glances  of  the  occasional  passer-by. 


155 


156  A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

Madame  Carambeau's  widowed  daughter, 
Madame  Cecile  Lalonde,  lived  with  her.  This 
annual  party,  given  to  her  little  son,  Gustave, 
was  the  one  defiant  act  of  Madame  Lalonde's 
existence.  She  persisted  in  it,  to  her  own  as- 
tonishment and  the  wonder  of  those  who 
knew  her  and  her  mother. 

For  old  Madame  Carambeau  was  a  woman 
01  many  prejudices — so  many,  in  fact,  that  it 
would  be  difficult  to  name  them  all.  She  de- 
tested dogs,  cats,  organ-grinders,  white  ser- 
vants and  children's  noises.  She  despised 
Americans,  Germans  and  all  people  of  a  dif- 
ferent faith  from  her  own.  Anything  not 
French  had,  in  her  opinion,  little  right  to  ex- 
istence. 

She  had  not  spoken  to  her  son  Henri  for 
ten  years  because  he  had  married  an  Ameri- 
can girl  from  Prytania  street.  She  would  not 
permit  green  tea  to  be  introduced  into  her 
house,  and  those  who  could  not  or  would  not 
drink  coffee  might  drink  tisane  of  jieur  de 
Laurier  for  all  she  cared. 

Nevertheless,  the  children  seemed  to  be 
having  it  all  their  own  way  that  day,  and  the 
organ-grinders  were  let  loose.     Old  madame, 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  157 

in  her  retired  corner,  could  hear  the  screams, 
the  laughter  and  the  music  far  more  distinctly 
than  she  liked.  She  rocked  herself  noisily, 
and  hummed  "Partant  pour  la  Syrie." 

She  was  straight  and  slender.  Her  hair 
was  white,  and  she  wore  it  in  puffs  on  the 
temples.  Her  skin  was  fair  and  her  eyes  blue 
and  cold. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  footsteps 
were  approaching,  and  threatening  to  invade 
her  privacy — not  only  footsteps,  but  screams! 
Then  two  little  children,  one  in  hot  pursuit  of 
the  other,  darted  wildly  around  the  corner 
near  which  she  sat. 

The  child  in  advance,  a  pretty  little  girl, 
sprang  excitedly  into  Madame  Carambeau's 
lap,  and  threw  her  arms  convulsively  around 
the  old  lady's  neck.  Her  companion  lightly 
struck  her  a  "last  tag,"  and  ran  laughing  glee- 
fully away. 

The  most  natural  thing  for  the  child  to  do 
then  would  have  been  to  wriggle  down  from 
madame's  lap,  without  a  "thank  you"  or  a 
"by  your  leave,"  after  the  manner  of  small 
and  thoughtless  children.     But  she  did  not 


158         A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

do  this.  She  stayed  there,  panting  and  flutter- 
ing, like  a  frightened  bird. 

Madame  was  greatly  annoyed.  She  moved 
as  if  to  put  the  child  away  from  her,  and 
scolded  her  sharply  for  being  boisterous  and 
rude.  The  little  one,  who  did  not  understand 
French,  was  not  disturbed  by  the  reprimand, 
and  stayed  on  in  madame's  lap.  She  rested 
her  plump  little  cheek,  that  was  hot  and 
flushed,  against  the  soft  white  linen  of  the  old 
lady's  gown. 

Her  cheek  was  very  hot  and  very  flushed. 
It  was  dry,  too,  and  so  were  her  hands.  The 
child's  breathing  was  quick  and  irregular. 
Madame  was  not  long  in  detecting  these  signs 
of  disturbance. 

Though  she  was  a  creature  of  prejudice, 
she  was  nevertheless  a  skillful  and  accom- 
plished nurse,  and  a  connoisseur  in  all  matters 
pertaining  to  health.  She  prided  herself  upon 
this  talent,  and  never  lost  an  opportunity  of 
exercising  it.  She  would  have  treated  an  or- 
gan-grinder with  tender  consideration  if  one 
had  presented  himself  in  the  character  of  an 
invalid. 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  159 

Madame's  manner  toward  the  little  one 
changed  immediately.  Her  arms  and  her  lap 
were  at  once  adjusted  so  as  to  become  the 
most  comfortable  of  resting  places.  She 
rocked  very  gently  to  and  fro.  She  fanned  the 
child  softly  with  her  palm  leaf  fan,  and  sang 
"Partant  pour  la  Syrie"  in  a  low  and  agreea- 
ble tone. 

The  child  was  perfectly  content  to  lie  still 
and  prattle  a  little  in  that  language  which  ma- 
dame  thought  hideous.  But  the  brown  eyes 
were  soon  swimming  in  drowsiness,  and  the 
little  body  grew  heavy  with  sleep  in  madame's 
clasp. 

When  the  little  girl  slept  Madame  Caram- 
beau  arose,  and  treading  carefully  and  delib- 
erately, entered  her  room,  that  opened  near  at 
hand  upon  the  gallery.  The  room  was  large, 
airy  and  inviting,  with  its  cool  matting  upon 
the  floor,  and  its  heavy,  old,  polished  mahog- 
any furniture.  Madame,  with  the  child  still 
in  her  arms,  pulled  a  bell-cord;  then  she  stood 
waiting,  swaying  gently  back  and  forth.  Pres- 
ently an  old  black  woman  answered  the  sum- 
mons.   She  wore  gold  hoops  in  her  ears,  and 


160         A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

a  bright  bandanna  knotted  fantastically  on 
her  head. 

"Louise,  turn  down  the  bed,"  commanded 
madame.  "Place  that  small,  soft  pillow  be- 
low the  bolster.  Here  is  a  poor  little  unfor- 
tunate creature  whom  Providence  must  have 
driven  into  my  arms."  She  laid  the  child 
carefully  down. 

"Ah,  those  Americans !  Do  they  deserve  to 
have  children?  Understanding  as  little  as  they 
do  how  to  take  care  of  them!"  said  madame, 
while  Louise  was  mumbling  an  accompanying 
assent  that  would  have  been  unintelligible  to 
any  one  unacquainted  with  the  negro  patois. 

"There,  you  see,  Louise,  she  is  burning 
up,"  remarked  madame;  "she  is  consumed. 
Unfasten  the  little  bodice  while  I  lift  her.  Ah, 
talk  to  me  of  such  parents!  So  stupid  as  not 
to  perceive  a  fever  like  that  coming  on,  but 
they  must  dress  their  child  up  like  a  monkey 
to  go  play  and  dance  to  the  music  of  organ- 
grinders. 

"Haven't  you  better  sense,  Louise,  than  to 
take  off  a  child's  shoe  as  if  you  were  remov- 
ing the  boot  from  the  leg  of  a  cavalry  officer?" 
Madame  would  have  required  fairy  fingers 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  161 

to  minister  to  the  sick.  "Now  go  to  Mam- 
zelle  Cecile,  and  tell  her  to  send  me  one  of 
those  old,  soft,  thin  nightgowns  that  Gustave 
wore  two  summers  ago." 

When  the  woman  retired,  madame  busied 
herself  with  concocting  a  cooling  pitcher  of 
orange-flower  water,  and  mixing  a  fresh  sup- 
ply of  eau  sedative  with  which  agreeably  to 
sponge  the  little  invalid. 

Madame  Lalonde  came  herself  with  the  old, 
soft  nightgown.  She  was  a  pretty,  blonde, 
plump  little  woman,  with  the  deprecatory  air 
of  one  whose  will  has  become  flaccid  from 
want  of  use.  She  was  mildly  distressed  at 
what  her  mother  had  done. 

"But,  mamma!  But,  mamma,  the  child's 
parents  will  be  sending  the  carriage  for  her 
in  a  little  while.  Really,  there  was  no  use. 
Oh  dear!  oh  dear!" 

If  the  bedpost  had  spoken  to  Madame  Car- 
ambeau,  she  would  have  paid  more  attention, 
for  speech  from  such  a  source  would  have 
been  at  least  surprising  if  not  convincing. 
Madame  Lalonde  did  not  possess  the  faculty 
of  either  surprising  or  convincing  her  mother. 


1 62         A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

"Yes,  the  little  one  will  be  quite  comforta- 
ble in  this,"  said  the  old  lady,  taking  the  gar- 
ment from  her  daughter's  irresolute  hands. 

"But,  mamma!  What  shall  I  say,  what  shall 
I  do  when  they  send?    Oh,  dear;  oh,  dear!" 

"That  is  your  business,"  replied  madame, 
with  lofty  indifference.  "My  concern  is  solely 
with  a  sick  child  that  happens  to  be  under  my 
roof.  I  think  I  know  my  duty  at  this  time  of 
life,  Cecile." 

As  Madame  Lalonde  predicted,  the  car- 
riage soon  came,  with  a  stiff  English  coachman 
driving  it,  and  a  red-cheeked  Irish  nurse-maid 
seated  inside.  Madame  would  not  even  per- 
mit the  maid  to  see  her  little  charge.  She  had 
an  original  theory  that  the  Irish  voice  is  dis- 
tressing to  the  sick. 

Madame  Lalonde  sent  the  girl  away  with  a 
long  letter  of  explanation  that  must  have  satis  - 
fied  the  parents;  for  the  child  was  left  undis- 
turbed in  Madame  Carambeau's  care.  She  was 
a  sweet  child,  gentle  and  affectionate.  And, 
though  she  cried  and  fretted  a  little  through- 
out the  night  for  her  mother,  she  seemed,  af- 
ter all,  to  take  kindly  to  madame's ;  gentle 
nursing.     It  was  not  much  of  a  fever  that 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  163 

afflicted  her,  and  after  two  days  she  was  well 
enough  to  be  sent  back  to  her  parents. 

Madame,  in  all  her  varied  experience  with 
the  sick,  had  never  before  nursed  so  objec- 
tionable a  character  as  an  American  child. 
But  the  trouble  was  that  after  the  little  one 
went  away,  she  could  think  of  nothing  really 
objectionable  against  her  except  the  accident 
of  her  birth",  which'  was,  after  all,  her  misfor- 
tune; and  her  ignorance  of  the  French  lan- 
guage, which  was  not  her  fault. 

But  the  touch  of  the  caressing  baby  arms; 
the  pressure  of  the  soft  little  body  in  the 
night;  the  tones  of  the  voice,  and  the  feeling 
of  the  hot  lips  when  the  child  kissed  her,  be- 
lieving herself  to  be  with  her  mother,  were 
impressions  that  had  sunk  through  the  crust 
of  madame's  prejudice  and  reached  her  heart. 

She  often  walked  the  length  of  the  gallery, 
looking  out  across  the  wide,  majestic  river. 
Sometimes  she  trod  the  mazes  of  her  garden 
where  the  solitude  was  almost  that  of  a  tropi- 
cal jungle.  It  was  during  such  moments  that 
the  seed  began  to  work  in  her  soul — the  seed 
planted  by  the  innocent  and  undesigning 
hands  of  a  little  child. 


164         A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

The  first  shoot  that  it  sent  forth  was  Doubt. 
Madame  plucked  it  away  once  or  twice.  But 
it  sprouted  again,  and  with  it  Mistrust  and 
Dissatisfaction.  Then  from  the  heart  of  the 
seed,  and  amid  the  shoots  of  Doubt  and  Mis- 
giving, came  the  flower  of  Truth.  It  was  a 
very  beautiful  flower,  and  it  bloomed  on 
Christmas  morning. 

As  Madame  Carambeau  and  her  daughter 
were  about  to  enter  her  carriage  on  that 
Christmas  morning,  to  be  driven  to  church, 
the  old  lady  stopped  to  give  an  order  to  her 
black  coachman,  Francois.  Francois  had 
been  driving  these  ladies  every  Sunday  morn- 
ing to  the  French  Cathedral  for  so  many  years 
— he  had  forgotten  exactly  how  many,  but 
ever  since  he  had  entered  their  service,  when 
Madame  Lalonde  was  a  little  girl.  His  as- 
tonishment may  therefore  be  imagined  when 
Madame  Carambeau  said  to  him: 

"Francois,  to-day  you  will  drive  us  to  one 
of  the  American  churches." 

"Plait-il,  madame?"  the  negro  stammered, 
doubting  the  evidence  of  his  hearing. 

"I  say,  you  will  drive  us  to  one  of  the  Amer- 
ican churches.    Any  one  of  them,"  she  added, 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  165 

with  a  sweep  of  her  hand.  "I  suppose  they 
are  all  alike,"  and  she  followed  her  daughter 
into  the  carriage. 

Madame  Lalonde's  surprise  and  agitation 
were  painful  to  see,  and  they  deprived  her  of 
the  ability  to  question,  even  if  she  had  pos- 
sessed the  courage  to  do  so. 

Francois,  left  to  his  fancy,  drove  them  to 
St.  Patrick's  Church  on  Camp  street.  Ma- 
dame Lalonde  looked  and  felt  like  the  pro- 
verbial fish  out  of  its  element  as  they  entered 
the  edifice.  Madame  Carambeau,  on  the  con- 
trary, looked  as  if  she  had  been  attending  St. 
Patrick's  church  all  her  life.  She  sat  with  un- 
ruffled calm  through  the  long  service  and 
through  a  lengthy  English  sermon,  of  which 
she  did  not  understand  a  word. 

When  the  mass  was  ended  and  they  were 
about  to  enter  the  carriage  again,  Madame 
Carambeau  turned,  as  she  had  done  before,  to 
the  coachman. 

"Francois,"  she  said,  coolly,  "y°u  will  now 
drive  us  to  the  residence  of  my  son,  M.  Henri 
Carambeau.  No  doubt  Mamzelle  Cecile  can 
inform  you  where  it  is,"  she  added,  with  a 


1 66         A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

sharply  penetrating  glance  that  caused  Ma- 
dame Lalonde  to  wince. 

Yes,  her  daughter  Cecile  knew,  and  so  did 
Francois,  for  that  matter.  They  drove  out 
St.  Charles  avenue — very  far  out.  It  was 
like  a  strange  city  to  old  madame,  who  had 
not  been  in  the  American  quarter  since  the 
town  had  taken  on  this  new  and  splendid 
growth. 

The  morning  was  a  delicious  one,  soft  and 
mild;  and  the  roses  were  all  in  bloom.  They 
were  not  hidden  behind  spiked  fences.  Ma- 
dame appeared  not  to  notice  them,  or  the 
beautiful  and  striking  residences  that  lined 
the  avenue  along  which  they  drove.  She  held 
a  bottle  of  smelling-salts  to  her  nostrils,  as 
though  she  were  passing  through  the  most 
unsavory  instead  of  the  most  beautiful  quar- 
ter of  New  Orleans. 

Henri's  house  was  a  very  modern  and  very 
handsome  one,  standing  a  little  distance  away 
from  the  street.  A  well-kept  lawn,  studded 
with  rare  and  charming  plants,  surrounded 
it.  The  ladies,  dismounting,  rang  the  bell, 
and  stood  out  upon  the  banquette,  waiting 
for  the  iron  gate  to  be  opened. 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  167 

A  white  maid-servant  admitted  them.  Ma- 
dame did  not  seem  to  mind.  She  handed  her 
a  card  with  all  proper  ceremony,  and  followed 
with  her  daughter  to  the  house. 

Not  once  did  she  show  a  sign  of  weakness; 
not  even  when  her  son,  Henri,  came  and  took 
her  in  his  arms  and  sobbed  and  wept  upon 
her  neck  as  only  a  warm-hearted  Creole  could. 
He  was  a  big,  good-looking,  honest-faced 
man,  with  tender  brown  eyes  like  his  dead 
father's  and  a  firm  mouth  like  his  mother's. 

Young  Mrs.  Carambeau  came,  too,  her 
sweet,  fresh  face  transfigured  with  happiness. 
She  led  by  the  hand  her  little  daughter,  the 
'American  child"  whom  madame  had  nursed 
so  tenderly  a  month  before,  never  suspecting 
the  little  one  to  be  other  than  an  alien  to  her. 

"What  a  lucky  chance  was  that  fever!  What 
a  happy  accident!"  gurgled  Madame  Lalonde. 

"Cecile,  it  was  no  accident,  I  tell  you;  it 
was  Providence,"  spoke  madame,  reprovingly, 
and  no  one  contradicted  her. 

They  all  drove  back  together  to  eat  Christ- 
mas dinner  in  the  old  house  by  the  river. 
Madame  held  her  little  granddaughter  upon 


1 68         A  Matter  of  Prejudice. 

her  lap;  her  son  Henri  sat  facing  her,  and  be- 
side her  was  her  daughter-in-law. 

Henri  sat  back  in  the  carriage  and  could 
not  speak.  His  soul  was  possessed  by  a  pa- 
thetic joy  that  would  not  admit  of  speech. 
He  was  going  back  again  to  the  home  where 
he  was  born,  after  a  banishment  of  ten  long 
years. 

He  would  hear  again  the  water  beat  against 
the  green  levee-bank  with  a  sound  that  was 
not  quite  like  any  other  that  he  could,  remem- 
ber. He  would  sit  within  the  sweet  and  sol- 
emn shadow  of  the  deep  and  overhanging 
roof;  and  roam  through  the  wild,  rich  soli- 
tude of  the  old  garden,  where  he  had  played 
his  pranks  of  boyhood  and  dreamed  his 
dreams  of  youth.  He  would  listen  to  his 
mother's  voice  calling  him,  "mon  fils,"  as  it 
had  always  done  before  that  day  he  had  had 
to  choose  between  mother  and  wife.  No;  he 
could  not  speak. 

But  his  wife  chatted  much  and  pleasantly — 
in  a  French,  however,  that  must  have  been 
trying  to  old  madame  to  listen  to. 

"I  am  so  sorry,  ma  mere,"  she  said,  "that 
our  little  one  does  not  speak  French.     It  is 


A  Matter  of  Prejudice.  169 

not  my  fault,  I  assure  you,"  and  she  flushed 
and  hesitated  a  little.  "It — it  was  Henri  who 
would  not  permit  it." 

"That  is  nothing,"  replied  madame,  amia- 
bly, drawing  the  child  close  to  her.  "Her 
grandmother  will  teach  her  French;  and  she 
will  teach  her  grandmother  English.  You 
see,  I  have  no  prejudices.  I  am  not  like  my 
son.  Henri  was  always  a  stubborn  boy. 
Heaven  only  knows  how  he  came  by  such  a 
character!" 


Caline 


T 


Caline 

HE  sun  was  just  far  enough  in  the  west 
to  send  inviting  shadows.  In  the  centre 
of  a  small  field,  and  in  the  shade  of  a 
haystack  which  was  there,  a  girl  lay  sleeping. 
She  had  slept  long  and  soundly,  when  some- 
thing awoke  her  as  suddenly  as  if  it  had  been  a 
blow.  She  opened  her  eyes  and  stared  a  mo* 
ment  up  in  the  cloudless  sky.  She  yawned 
and  stretched  her  long  brown  legs  and  arms, 
lazily.  Then  she  arose,  never  minding  the 
bits  of  straw  that  clung  to  her  black  hair,  to 
her  red  bodice,  and  the  blue  cotonade  skirt 
that  did  not  reach  her  naked  ankles. 

The  log  cabin  in  which  she  dwelt  with  her 
parents  was  just  outside  the  enclosure  in 
which  she  had  been  sleeping.  Beyond  was  a 
small  clearing  that  did  duty  as  a  cotton  field. 
All  else  was  dense  wood,  except  the  long 
stretch  that  curved  round  the  brow  of  the  hill, 

173 


174  Caline. 

and  in  which  glittered  the  steel  rails  of  the 
Texas  and  Pacific  road. 

When  Caline  emerged  from  the  shadow  she 
saw  a  long  train  of  passenger  coaches  stand- 
ing in  view,  where  they  must  have  stopped 
abruptly.  It  was  that  sudden  stopping  which 
had  awakened  her;  for  such  a  thing  had  not 
happened  before  within  her  recollection,  and 
she  looked  stupid,  at  first,  with  astonishment. 
There  seemed  to  be  something  wrong  with 
the  engine;  and  some  of  the  passengers  who 
dismounted  went  forward  to  investigate  the 
trouble.  Others  came  strolling  along  in  the 
direction  of  the  cabin,  where  Caline  stood  un- 
der an  old  gnarled  mulberry  tree,  staring. 
Her  father  had  halted  "his  mule  at  the  end  of 
the  cotton  row,  and  stood  staring  also,  lean- 
ing upon  his  plow. 

There  were  ladies  in  the  party.  They  walked 
awkwardly  in  their  high-heeled  boots  over 
the  rough,  uneven  ground,  and  held  up  their 
skirts  mincingly.  They  twirled  parasols  over 
their  shoulders,  and  laughed  immoderately  at 
the  funny  things  which  their  masculine  com- 
panions were  saying. 


Caline.  175 

They  tried  to  talk  to  Caline,  but  could  not 
understand  the  French  patois  with  which  she 
answered  them. 

One  of  the  men — a  pleasant-faced  young- 
ster— drew  a  sketch  book  from  his  pocket  and 
began  to  make  a  picture  of  the  girl.  She 
stayed  motionless,  her  hands  behind  her,  and 
her  wide  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  him. 

Before  he  had  finished  there  was  a  sum- 
mons from  the  train;  and  all  went  scampering 
hurriedly  away.  The  engine  screeched,  it 
sent  a  few  lazy  puffs  into  the  still  air,  and  in 
another  moment  or  two  had  vanished,  bearing 
its  human  cargo  with  it. 

Caline  could  not  feel  the  same  after  that. 
She  looked  with  new  and  strange  interest 
upon  the  trains  of  cars  that  passed  so  swiftly 
back  and  forth  across  her  vision,  each  day; 
and  wondered  whence  these  people  came,  and 
whither  they  were  going. 

Her  mother  and  father  could  not  tell  her, 
except  to  say  that  they  came  from  "loin  la 
bas,"  and  were  going    "Djieu  sait  e  ou." 

One  day  she  walked  miles  down  the  track 
to  talk  with  the  old  flagman,  who  stayed 
down  there  by  the  big  water  tank.    Yes,  he 


176  Caline. 

knew.  Those  people  came  from  the  great  cities 
in  the  north,  and  were  going  to  the  city 
in  the  south.  He  knew  all  about  the  city;  it 
was  a  grand  place.  He  had  lived  there  once. 
His  sister  lived  there  now;  and  she  would  be 
glad  enough  to  have  so  fine  a  girl  as  Caline 
to  help  her  cook  and  scrub,  and  tend  the 
babies.  And  he  thought  Caline  might  earn 
as  much  as  five  dollars  a  month,  in  the  city. 

So  she  went;  in  a  new  cotonade,  and  her 
Sunday  shoes ;  with  a  sacredly  guarded  scrawl 
that  the  flagman  sent  to  his  sister. 

The  woman  lived  in  a  tiny,  stuccoed  house, 
with  green  blinds,  and  three  wooden  steps 
leading  down  to  the  banquette.  There  seemed 
to  be  hundreds  like  it  along  the  street.  Over 
the  house  tops  loomed  the  tall  masts  of  ships, 
and  the  hum  of  the  French  market  could  be 
heard  on  a  still  morning. 

Caline  was  at  first  bewildered.  She  had  to 
readjust  all  her  preconceptions  to  fit  the  re- 
ality of  it.  The  flagman's  sister  was  a  kind 
and  gentle  task-mistress.  At  the  end  of  a 
week  or  two  she  wanted  to  know  how  the  girl 
liked  it  all."  Caline  liked  it  very  well,  for  it 
was  pleasant,  on  Sunday  afternoons,  to  stroll 


Caline.  177 

with  the  children  under  the  great,  solemn 
sugar  sheds;  or  to  sit  upon  the  compressed 
cotton  bales,  watching  the  stately  steamers, 
the  graceful  boats,  and  noisy  little  tugs  that 
plied  the  waters  of  the  Mississippi.  And  it 
filled  her  with  agreeable  excitement  to  go 
to  the  French  market,  where  the  handsome 
Gascon  butchers  were  eager  to  present  their 
compliments  and  little  Sunday  bouquets  to  the 
pretty  Acadian  girl;  and  to  throw  fistfuls  of 
lagniafpe  into  her  basket. 

When  the  woman  asked  her  again  after  an- 
other week  if  she  were  still  pleased,  she  was 
not  so  sure.  And  again  when  she  questioned 
Caline  the  girl  turned  away,  and  went  to  sit 
behind  the  big,  yellow  cistern,  to  cry  unob- 
served. For  she  knew  now  that  it  was  not  tfie^, 
great  city  and  its  crowds  of  people  she  had 
so  eagerly  sought;  but  the  pleasant-faced  boy, 
who  had  made  her  picture  that  day  under  the  1 
mulberry  tree.  J 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie 

MADAME  Valtour  had  been  in  the  sit- 
ting-room some  time  before  she  no- 
ticed the  absence  of  the  Dresden  china 
figure  from  the  corner  of  the  mantel-piece, 
where  it  had  stood  for  years.  Aside  from  the 
intrinsic  value  of  the  piece,  there  were  some 
very  sad  and  tender  memories  associated  with 
it.  A  baby's  lips  that  were  now  forever  still 
had  loved  once  to  kiss  the  painted  "pitty  'ady" ; 
and  the  baby  arms  had  often  held  it  in  a  close 
and  smothered  embrace. 

Madame  Valtour  gave  a  rapid,  startled 
glance  around  the  room,  to  see  perchance  if 
it  had  been  misplaced;  but  she  failed  to  dis- 
cover it. 

Viny,  the  house-maid,  when  summoned,  re- 
membered having  carefully  dusted  it  that 
morning,  and  was  rather  indignantly  positive 

181 


1 82      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

that  she  had  not  broken  the  thing  to  bits  and 
secreted  the  pieces. 

"Who  has  been  in  the  room  during  my 
absence?"  questioned  Madame  Valtour,  with 
asperity.  Viny  abandoned  herself  to  a  mo- 
ment's reflection. 

"Pa-Jeff  corned  in  yere  wid  de  mail — "  If 
she  had  said  St.  Peter  came  in  with  the  mail, 
the  fact  would  have  had  as  little  bearing  on 
the  case  from  Madame  Valtour's  point  of 
view. 

Pa-Jeff's  uprightness  and  honesty  were  so 
long  and  firmly  established  as  to  have  be- 
come proverbial  on  the  plantation.  He  had 
not  served  the  family  faithfully  since  boy- 
hood and  been  all  through  the  war  with  "old 
Marse  Valtour"  to  descend  at  his  time  of  life 
to  tampering  with  household  bric-a-brac. 

"Has  any  one  else  been  here?"  Madame 
Valtour  naturally  inquired. 

"On'y  Agapie  w'at  brung  you  some  Creole 
aiggs.  I  tole  'er  to  sot  'em  down  in  de  hall. 
I  don'  know  she  corned  in  de  settin'-room 
o'  not." 

/^xes,  there  they  were;  eight,  fresh  "Creole 
eggs"  reposing  on  the  muslin  in  the  sewing 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.      183 

basket.  Viny  herself  had  been  seated  on  the 
gallery  brushing  her  mistress'  gowns  during 
the  hours  of  that  lady's  absence,  and  could 
think  of  no  one  else  having  penetrated  to  the 
sitting-room. 

Madame  Valtour  did  not  entertain  the 
thought  that  Agapie  had  stolen  the  relic.  Her 
worst  fear  was,  that  the  girl,  rinding  herself 
alone  in  the  room,  had  handled  the  frail  bit 
of  porcelain  and  inadvertently  broken  it. 
1  Agapie  came  often  to  the  house  to  play 
with  the  children  and  amuse  them — she  loved 
nothing  better.  Indeed,  no  other  spot  known 
to  her  on  earth  so  closely  embodied  her  con- 
fused idea  of  paradise,  as  this  home  with  its 
atmosphere  of  love,  comfort  and  good 
cheer.  She  was,  herself,  a  cheery  bit  of  hu- 
manity, overflowing  with  kind  impulses  and 
animal  spirits. 

Madame  Valtour  recalled  the  fact  that 
Agapie  had  often  admired  this  Dresden  figure 
(but  what  had  she  not  admired!);  and  she  re- 
membered having  heard  the  girl's  assurance 
that  if  ever  she  became  possessed  of  "fo'  bits" 
to  spend  as  she  liked,  she  would  have  some 


1 84      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

one  buy  her  just  such  a  china  doll  in  town 
or  in  the  city. 

Before  night,  the  fact  that  the  Dresden  lady 
had  strayed  from  her  proud  eminence  on  the 
sitting-room  mantel,  became,  through  Viny's 
indiscreet  babbling,  pretty  well  known  on  the 
place. 

The  following  morning  Madame  Valtour 
crossed  the  field  and  went  over  to  the  Be- 
dauts'  cabin.  The  cabins  on  the  plantation 
were  not  grouped;  but  each  stood  isolated 
upon  the  section  of  land  which  its  occupants 
cultivated.  Pa-Jeff's  cabin  was  the  only  one 
near  enough  to  the  Bedauts  to  admit  of  neigh- 
borly intercourse.  P 

Seraphine  Bedaut  was  sitting  on  her  small 
gallery,  stringing  red  peppers,  when  Madame 
Valtour  approached. 

"I'm  so  distressed,  Madame  Bedaut,"  be- 
gan the  planter's  wife,  abruptly.  But  the 
'Cadian  woman  arose  politely  and  interrupted, 
offering  her  visitor  a  chair. 

"Come  in,  set  down,  Ma'me  Valtour." 

"No,  no;  it's  only  for  a  moment.  You  know, 
Madame  Bedaut,  yesterday  when  I  returned 
from  making  a  visit,  I  found  that  an  orna- 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.       185 

ment  was  missing  from  my  sitting-room  man- 
tel-piece. It's  a  thing  I  prize  very,  very  much 
— "  with  sudden  tears  filling  her  eyes — "and  I 
would  not  willingly  part  with  it  for  many 
times  its  value."  Seraphine  Bedaut  was  list- 
ening, with  her  mouth  partly  open,  looking, 
in  truth,  stupidly  puzzled. 

"No  one  entered  the  room  during  my  ab- 
sence," continued  Madame  Valtour,  "but 
Agapie."  Seraphine's  mouth  snapped  like  a 
steel  trap  and  her  black  eyes  gleamed  with  a 
flash  of  anger. 

"You  wan'  say  Agapie  stole  some'in'  in  yo' 
house!"  she  cried  out  in  a  shrill  voice,  tremu- 
lous from  passion^ 

"No;  oh  no!  I'm  sure  Agapie  is  an  honest 
girl  and  we  all  love  her;  but  you  know  how 
children  are.  It  was  a  small  Dresden  figure. 
She  may  have  handled  and  broken  the  thing 
and  perhaps  is  afraid  to  say  so.  She  may 
have  thoughtlessly  misplaced  it;  oh,  I  don't 
know  what!     I  want  to  ask  if  she  saw  it." 

"Come  in;  you  got  to  come  in,  Ma'me  Val- 
tour," stubbornly  insisted  Seraphine,  leading 
the  way  into  the  cabin.  "I  sen'  'er  to  de 
house  yistiddy  wid  some  Creole  aiggs,"  she 


1 86      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

went  on  in  her  rasping  voice,  "like  I  all  time 
do,  because  you  all  say  you  can't  eat  dem  sto' 
aiggs  no  mo.'  Yere  de  basket  w'at  I  sen' 
'em  in,"  reaching  for  an  Indian  basket  which 
hung  against  the  wall — and  which  was  partly 
filled  with  cotton  seed., 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  interrupted  Madame 
Valtour,  now  thoroughly  distressed  at  wit- 
nessing the  woman's  agitation. 

"Ah,  bien  non.  I  got  to  show  you,  Agapie 
\  en't  no  mo'  thief  'an  yo'  own  child'en  is."  She 
led  the  way  into  the  adjoining  room  of  the 
I  hut. 

"Yere  all  her  things  w'at  she  'muse  herse'f 
wid,"  continued  Seraphine,  pointing  to  a  soap- 
box which  stood  on  the  floor  just  beneath 
the  open  window.  The  box  was  filled  with 
an  indescribable  assortment  of  odds  and  ends, 
mostly  doll-rags.  A  catechism  and  a  blue- 
backed  speller  poked  dog-eared  corners  from 
out  of  the  confusion;  for  the  Valtour  children 
were  making  heroic  and  patient  efforts  to- 
ward Agapie's  training. 

Seraphine  cast  herself  upon  her  knees  be- 
fore the  box  and  dived  her  thin  brown  hands 
among  its  contents.     "I  wan'  show  you;  I 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.       187 

goin'  show  you,"  she  kept  repeating  excitedly. 
Madame  Valtour  was  standing  beside  her. 

Suddenly  the  woman  drew  forth  from 
among  the  rags,  the  Dresden  lady,  as  dapper, 
sound,  and  smiling  as  ever.  Seraphine's  hand 
shook  so  violently  that  she  was  in  danger  of 
letting  the  image  fall  to  the  floor.  Madame 
Valtour  reached  out  and  took  it  very  quietly 
from  her.  Then  Seraphine  rose  tremblingly 
to  her  feet  and  broke  into  a  sob  that  was  piti- 
ful to  hear. 

Agapie  was  approaching  the  cabin.  She 
was  a  chubby  girl  of  twelve.  She  walked 
with  bare,  callous  feet  over  the  rough  ground 
and  bare-headed  under  the  hot  sun.  Her 
thick,  short,  black  hair  covered  her  head  like 
a  mane.  She  had  been  dancing  along  the 
path,  but  slackened  her  pace  upon  catching 
sight  of  the  two  women  who  had  returned  to 
the  gallery.  But  when  she  perceived  that  her 
mother  was  crying  she  darted  impetuously 
forward.  In  an  instant  she  had  her  arms 
around  her  mother's  neck,  clinging  so  tena- 
ciously in  her  youthful  strength  as  to  make 
the  frail  woman  totter, 


1 88      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

Agapie  had  seen  the  Dresden  figure  in 
Madame  Valtour's  possession  and  at  once 
guessed  the  whole  accusation. 

"It  en't  so!  I  tell  you,  maman,  it  en't  so! 
I  neva  touch'  it.  Stop  cryin';  stop  cryin'!" 
and  she  began  to  cry  most  piteously  herself. 

"But  Agapie,  we  fine  it  in  yo'  box,"  moaned 
Seraphine  through  her  sobs. 

"Then  somebody  put  it  there.  Can't  you 
see  somebody  put  it  there?  'Ten't  so,  I  tell 
you." 

The  scene  was  extremely  painful  to  Ma- 
dame Valtour.  Whatever  she  might  tell  these 
two  later,  for  the  time  she  felt  herself  power- 
less to  say  anything  befitting,  and  she  walked 
away.  But  she  turned  to  remark,  with  a 
hardness  of  expression  and  intention  which 
she  seldom  displayed:  "No  one  will  know  of 
this  through  me.  But,  Agapie,  you  must  not 
come  into  my  house  again;  on  account  of  the 
children;  I  could  not  allow  it." 

As  she  walked  away  she  could  hear  Agapie 
comforting  her  mother  with  renewed  protesta- 
tions of  innocence. 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.      189 

Pa-Jeff  began  to  fail  visibly  that  year.  No 
wonder,  considering  his  great  age,  which  he 
computed  to  be  about  one  hundred.  It  was, 
in  fact,  some  ten  years  less  than  that,  but  a 
good  old  age  all  the  same.  It  was  seldom 
that  he  got  out  into  the  field;  and  then,  never 
to  do  any  heavy  work — only  a  little  light  hoe- 
ing. There  were  days  when  the  "misery" 
doubled  him  up  and  nailed  him  down  to  his 
chair  so  that  he  could  not  set  foot  beyond 
the  door  of  his  cabin.  He  would  sit  there 
courting  the  sunshine  and  blinking,  as  he 
gazed  across  the  fields  with  the  patience  of 
the  savage. 

The  Bedauts  seemed  to  know  almost  in- 
stinctively when  Pa-Jeff  was  sick.  Agapie 
would  shade  her  eyes  and  look  searchingly 
towards  the  old  man's  cabin. 

"I  don'  see  Pa-Jeff  this  mo'nin',"  or  "Pa- 
Jeff  en't  open  his  winda,"  or  "I  didn'  see  no 
smoke  yet  yonda  to  Pa-Jeff's."  And  in  a  lit- 
tle while  the  girl  would  be  over  there  with  a 
pail  of  soup  or  coffee,  or  whatever  there  was 
at  hand  which  she  thought  the  old  negro 
might  fancy.  She  had  lost  all  the  color  out 
of  her  cheeks  and  was  pining  like  a  sick  bird. 


190      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

She  often  sat  on  the  steps  of  the  gallery 
and  talked  with  the  old  man  while  she  waited 
for  him  to  finish  his  soup  from  her  tin  pail. 

"I  tell  you,  Pa-Jeff,  its  neva  been  no  thief 
in  the  Bedaut  family.  My  pa  say  he  couldn' 
hole  up  his  head  if  he  think  I  been  a  thief, 
me.  An'  maman  say  it  would  make  her  sick 
in  bed,  she  don'  know  she  could  ever  git  up. 
Sosthene  tell  me  the  chil'en  been  cryin'  fo' 
me  up  yonda.  Li'le  Lulu  cry  so  hard  M'sieur 
Valtour  want  sen'  afta  me,  an'  Ma'me  Val- 
tour  say  no." 

And  with  this,  Agapie  flung  herself  at 
length  upon  the  gallery  with  her  face  buried 
in  her  arms,  and  began  to  cry  so  hysterically 
as  seriously  to  alarm  Pa- Jeff.  It  was  well 
he  had  finished  his  soup,  for  he  could  not 
have  eaten  another  mouthful. 

"Hole  up  yo'  head,  chile.  God  save  us! 
Wat  you  kiarrin'  on  dat  away?"  he  exclaimed 
in  great  distress.  "You  gwine  to  take  a  fit? 
Hole  up  yo'  head." 

Agapie  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  drying 
her  eyes  upon  the  sleeve  of  her  "josie," 
reached  out  for     the     tin     bucket.     Pa- Jeff 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.       191 

handed  it  to  her,  but  without  relinquishing  his 
hold  upon  it. 

"War  hit  you  w'at  tuck  it?"  he  questioned 
in  a  whisper.  "I  isn'  gwine  tell;  you  knows 
I  isn'  gwine  tell."  She  only  shook  her  head, 
attempting  to  draw  the  pail  forcibly  away 
from  the  old  man. 

"Le'  me  go,  Pa-Jeff.  W'at  you  doin'!  Gi' 
me  my  bucket!" 

He  kept  his  old  blinking  eyes  fastened  for 
a  while  questioningly  upon  her  disturbed  and 
tear-stained  face.  Then  he  let  her  go  and  she 
turned  and  ran  swiftly  away  towards  her 
home. 

He  sat  very  still  watching  her  disappear; 
only  his  furrowed  old  face  twitched  convul- 
sively, moved  by  an  unaccustomed  train  of 
reasoning  that  was  at  work  in  him. 

"She  w'ite,  I  is  black,"  he  muttered  calcu- 
latingly. "She  young,  I  is  ole;  sho  I  is  ole. 
She  good  to  Pa- Jeff  like  I  her  own  kin  an' 
color."  This  line  of  thought  seemed  to  pos- 
sess him  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other. 
Late  in  the  night  he  was  still  muttering. 

"Sho  I  is  ole.     She  good  to  Pa-Jeff,  yas." 


192      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

A  few  days  later,  when  Pa-Jeff  happened  to 
be  feeling  comparatively  well,  he  presented 
himself  at  the  house  just  as  the  family  had  as- 
sembled at  their  early  dinner.  Looking  up 
suddenly,  Monsieur  Valtour  was  astonished 
to  see  him  standing  there  in  the  room  near 
the  open  door.  He  leaned  upon  his  cane  and 
his  grizzled  head  was  bowed  upon  his  breast. 
There  was  general  satisfaction  expressed  at 
seeing  Pa-Jeff  on  his  legs  once  more. 

"Why,  old  man,  I'm  glad  to  see  you  out 
again,"  exclaimed  the  planter,  cordially,  pour- 
ing a  glass  of  wine,  which  he  instructed 
Viny  to  hand  to  the  old  fellow.  Pa-Jeff  ac- 
cepted the  glass  and  set  it  solemnly  down 
upon  a  small  table  near  by. 

"Marse  Albert,"  he  said,  "I  is  come  heah 
to-day  fo'  to  make  a  statement  of  de  rights  an* 
de  wrongs  w'at  is  done  hang  heavy  on  my 
soul  dis  heah  long  time.  Arter  you  heahs  me 
an'  de  missus  heahs  me  an'  de  chillun  an'  ev'- 
body,  den  ef  you  says:  'Pa-Jeff  you  kin  tech 
yo'  lips  to  dat  glass  o'  wine,'  all  well  an' 
right.' " 

His  manner  was  impressive  and  caused  the 
family  to  exchange   surprised   and    troubled 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.       193 

glances.  Foreseeing  that  his  recital  might  be 
long,  a  chair  was  offered  to  him,  but  he  de- 
clined it. 

"One  day,"  he  began,  "w'en  I  ben  hoein'  de 
madam's  flower  bed  close  to  de  fence,  Sos- 
thene  he  ride  up,  he  say:  'Heah,  Pa- Jeff, 
heah  de  mail.'  I  takes  de  mail  f'om  'im  an' 
I  calls  out  to  Viny  w'at  settin'  on  de  gallery: 
'Heah  Marse  Albert's  mail,  gal;  come  git  it.' 

"But  Viny  she  answer,  pert-like — des  like 
Viny :  'You  is  got  two  laigs,  Pa-Jeff,  des  well 
as  me/  I  ain't  no  han'  fo'  disputin'  wid  gals, 
so  I  brace  up  an'  I  come  'long  to  de  house 
an'  goes  on  in  dat  settin'-room  dah,  naix'  to 
de  dinin'-room.  I  lays  dat  mail  down  on 
Marse  Albert's  table;  den  I  looks  roun\ 

"Ev' thing  do  look  putty,  sho!  De  lace  cur- 
tains was  a-flappin'  an'  de  flowers  was  a-smell- 
in'  sweet,  an'  de  pictures  a-settin'  back  on  de 
wall.  I  keep  on  lookin'  roun'.  To  reckly 
my  eye  hit  fall  on  de  li'le  gal  w'at  al'ays  sets 
on  de  een'  o'  de  mantel-shelf.  She  do  look 
mighty  sassy  dat  day,  wid  'er  toe  a-stickin' 
out,  des  so;  an'  holdin'  her  skirt  des  dat  away; 
an'  lookin'  at  me  wid  her  head  twis'. 


194      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

"I  laff  out.  Viny  mus'  heahed  me.  I  say, 
'g'long  'way  f'om  dah,  gal.'  She  keep  on 
smilin'.  I  reaches  out  my  han'.  Den  Satan 
an'  de  good  Sperrit,  dey  begins  to  wrastle  in 
me.  De  Sperrit  say:  'You  ole  fool-nigga, 
you;  mine  w'at  you  about/  Satan  keep  on 
shovin'  my  han' — des  so — keep  on  shovin'. 
Satan  he  mighty  powerful  dat  day,  an'  he 
win  de  fight.  I  kiar  dat  li'le  trick  home  in 
my  pocket." 

Pa-Jeff  lowered  his  head  for  a  moment  in 
bitter  confusion.  His  hearers  were  moved 
with  distressful  astonishment.  They  would 
have  had  him  stop  the  recital  right  there,  but 
Pa-Jeff  resumed,  with  an  effort: 

"Come  dat  night  I  heah  tell  how  dat  li'le 
trick,  wo'th  heap  money;  how  madam,  she 
cryin'  'cause  her  li'le  blessed  lamb  was  use'  to 
play  wid  dat,  an'  kiar-on  ov'  it.  Den  I  git 
scared.  I  say,  'w'at  I  gwine  do?'  An'  up 
jump  Satan  an'  de  Sperrit  a-wrastlin'  again. 

"De  Sperrit  say:  'Kiar  hit  back  whar  it 
come  f'om,  Pa-Jeff.'  Satan  'low:  'Fling  it 
in  de  bayeh,  you  ole  fool.'  De  Sperrit  say: 
'You  won't  fling  dat  in  de  bayeh,  whar  de 
madam  kain't  neva  sot  eyes  on  hit  no  mo'?' 


A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie.      195 

Den  Satan  he  kine  give  in;  he  'low  he  plumb 
sick  o'  disputin'  so  long;  tell  me  go  hide  it 
some  'eres  whar  dey  nachelly  gwine  fine  it. 
Satan  he  win  dat  fight. 

"Des  w'en  de  day  g'ine  break,  I  creeps  out 
an'  goes  'long  de  fid'  road.  I  pass  by  Ma'me 
Bedaut's  house.  I  riclic  how  dey  says  li'le 
Bedaut  gal  ben  in  de  sittin'-room,  too,  day 
befo'.  De  winda  war  open.'  Ev'body  sleep- 
in'.  I  tres'  in  my  head,  des  like  a  dog  w'at 
shame  hisse'f.  I  sees  dat  box  o'  rags  befo' 
my  eyes;  an'  I  drops  dat  li'le  imp'dence 
'mongst  dem  rags. 

"Mebby  yo'  all  t'ink  Satan  an'  de  Sperrit 
lef  me  'lone,  arter  dat?"  continued  Pa- Jeff, 
straightening  himself  from  the  relaxed  posi- 
tion in  which  his  members  seemed  to  have  set- 
tled. 

"No,  suh;  dey  ben  desputin'  straight  'long. 
Las'  night  dey  come  nigh  onto  en'in'  me  up. 
De  Sperrit  cay:  'Come  'long,  I  gittin'  tired 
dis  heah,  you  g'long  up  yonda  an'  tell  de  truf 
an'  shame  de  devil.'  Satan  'low:  'Stay  whar 
you  is;  you  heah  me!'  Dey  clutches  me.  Dey 
twis'es  an'  twines  me.  Dey  dashes  me  down 
an'  jerks  me  up.    But  de  Sperrit  he  win  dat 


196      A  Dresden  Lady  in  Dixie. 

fight  in  de  en',  an'  heah  I  is,  mist'ess,  master, 
chillun';  heah  I  is." 

Years  later  Pa-Jeff  was  still  telling  the  story 
of  his  temptation  and  fall.  The  negroes  espe- 
cially seemed  never  to  tire  of  hearing  him  re- 
late it.  He  enlarged  greatly  upon  the  theme 
as  he  went,  adding  new  and  dramatic  features 
which  gave  fresh  interest  to  its  every  telling. 

Agapie  grew  up  to  deserve  the  confidence 
and  favors  of  the  family.  She  redoubled  her 
acts  of  kindness  toward  Pa-Jeff;  but  somehow 
she  could  not  look  into  his  face  again. 

Yet  she  need  not  have  feared.  Long  be- 
fore the  end  came,  poor  old  Pa-Jeff,  confused, 
bewildered,  believed  the  story  himself  as  firm- 
ly as  those  who  had  heard  him  tell  it  over 
and  over  for  so  many  years. 


Neg  Creol 


A 


Neg  Creol 

T  the  remote  period  of  his  birth  he 
had  been  named  Cesar  Francois  Xavier, 
but  no  one  ever  thought  of  calling  him 
anything  but  Chicot,  or  Neg,  or  Maringouin. 
Down  at  the  French  market,  where  he  worked 
among  the  fishmongers,  they  called  him  Chi- 
cot, when  they  were  not  calling  him  names 
that  are  written  less  freely  than  they  are  spok- 
en. But  one  felt  privileged  to  call  him  al- 
most anything,  he  was  so  black,  lean,  lame, 
and  shriveled.  He  wore  a  head-kerchief,  and 
whatever  other  rags  the  fishermen  and  their 
wives  chose  to  bestow  upon  him.  Through- 
out one  whole  winter  he  wore  a  woman's  dis- 
carded jacket  with  puffed  sleeves. 

Among  some  startling  beliefs  entertained 
by  Chicot  was  one  that  "Michie  St.  Pierre  et 
Michie  St.  Paul"  had  created  him.  Of 
"Michie  bon  Dieu"  he  held  his  own  private 

199 


200  Neg  Creol. 

opinion,  and  not  a  too  flattering  one  at  that. 
This  fantastic  notion  concerning  the  origin  of 
his  being  he  owed  to  the  early  teaching  of  his 
young  master,  a  lax  believer,  and  a  great 
farceur  m  his  day.  Chicot  had  once  been 
thrashed  by  a  robust  young  Irish  priest  for 
expressing  his  religious  views,  and  at  another 
time  knifed  by  a  Sicilian^  So  he  had  come  to 
hold  his  peace  upon  that  subject. 

Upon  another  theme  he  talked  freely  and 
harped  continuously.  For  years  he  had  tried 
to  convince  his  associates  that  his  master  had 
left  a  progeny,  rich,  cultured,  powerful,  and 
numerous  beyond  belief.  This  prosperous 
race  of  beings  inhabited  the  most  imposing 
mansions  in  the  city  of  New  Orleans.  Men 
of  note  and  position,  whose  names  were  famil- 
iar to  the  public,  he  swore  were  grandchildren, 
great-grandchildren,  or,  less  frequently,  dis- 
tant relatives  of  his  master,  long  deceased, 
Ladies  who  came  to  the  market  in  carriages, 
or  whose  elegance  of  attire  attracted  the  at- 
tention and  admiration  of  the  fishwomen,  were 
all  des  Hites  cousines  to  his  former  master, 
Jean  Boisdure.  He  never  looked  for  recog- 
nition from  any  of  these  superior  beings,  but 


Neg  Creol.  201 

delighted  to  discourse  by  the  hour  upon  their 
dignity  and  pride  of  birth  and  wealth. 

Chicot  always  carried  an  old  gunny-sack, 
and  into  this  went  his  earnings.  He  cleaned 
stalls  at  the  market,  scaled  fish,  and  did  many 
odd  offices  for  the  itinerant  merchants,  who 
usually  paid  in  trade  for  his  service.  Occa- 
sionally he  saw  the  color  of  silver  and  got  his 
clutch  upon  a  coin,  but  he  accepted  anything, 
and  seldom  made  terms.  He  was  glad  to  get? 
a  handkerchief  from  the  Hebrew,  and  grateful! 
if  the  Choctaws  would  trade  him  a  bottle  ofj 
JiU  for  it.  The  butcher  flung  him  a  soup  bone, 
and  the  fishmonger  a  few  crabs  or  a  paper 
bag  of  shrimps.  It  was  the  big  mulatresse, 
vendeuse  de  cafe,  who  cared  for  his  inner 
man. 

Once  Chicot  was  accused  by  a  shoe-vender 
of  attempting  to  steal  a  pair  of  ladies'  shoes. 
He  declared  he  was  only  examining  them. 
The  clamor  raised  in  the  market  was  terrific. 
Young  Dagoes  assembled  and  squealed  like 
rats;  a  couple  of  Gascon  butchers  bellowed 
like  bulls.  Matteo's  wife  shook  her  fist  in  the 
accuser's  face  and  called  him  incomprehensi- 
ble names.    The  Choctaw  women,  where  they 


202  Neg  Creol. 

squatted,  turned  their  slow  eyes  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  fray,  taking  no  further  notice;  while 
a  policeman  jerked  Chicot  around  by  the 
puffed  sleeve  and  brandished  a  club.  It  was 
a  narrow  escape. 

Nobody  knew  where  Chicot  lived.  A  man 
— even  a  neg  creol — who  lives  among  the 
reeds  and  willows  of  Bayou  St.  John,  in  a 
deserted  chicken-coop  constructed  chiefly  of 
tarred  paper,  is  not  going  to  boast  of  his  hab- 
itation or  to  invite  attention  to  his  domestic 
appointments.  When,  after  market  hours,  he 
vanished  in  the  direction  of  St.  Philip  street, 
limping,  seemingly  bent  under  the  weight  of 
his  gunny-bag,  it  was  like  the  disappearance 
from  the  stage  of  some  petty  actor  whom  the 
audience  does  not  follow  in  imagination  be- 
yond the  wings,  or  think  of  till  his  return  in 
another  scene. 

There  was  one  to  whom  Chicot's  coming  or 
going  meant  more  than  this.  In  la  maison 
grise  they  called  her  La  Chouette,  for  no 
earthly  reason  unless  that  she  perched  high 
under  the  roof  of  the  old  rookery  and  scolded 
in  shrill  sudden  outbursts.  Forty  or  fifty  years 
before,  when  for  a  little  while  she  acted  minor 


Neg  Creol.  203 

parts  with  a  company  of  French  players  (an 
escapade  that  had  brought  her  grandmother 
to  the  grave),  she  was  known  as  Mademoiselle 
de  Montallaine.  Seventy-five  years  before  she 
had  been  christened  Aglae  Boisdure. 

No  matter  at  what  hour  the  old  negro  ap- 
peared at  her  threshold,  Mamzelle  Aglae  al- 
ways kept  him  waiting  till  she  finished  her 
prayers.  She  opened  the  door  for  him  and 
silently  motioned  him  to  a  seat,  returning  to 
prostrate  herself  upon  her  knees  before  a  cru- 
cifix, and  a  shell  filled  with  holy  water  that 
stood  on  a  small  table;  it  represented  in  her 
imagination  an  altar.  Chicot  knew  that  she! 
did  it  to  aggravate  him;  he  was  convinced 
that  she  timed  her  devotions  to  begin  when' 
she  heard  his  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  He 
would  sit  with  sullen  eyes  contemplating  her 
long,  spare,  poorly  clad  figure  as  she  knelt 
and  read  from  her  book  or  finished  her 
prayers.  Bitter  was  the  religious  warfare  that 
had  raged  for  years  between  them,  and  Mam- 
zelle Aglae  had  grown,  on  her  side,  as  intol- 
erant as  Chicot.  She  had  come  to  hold  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Paul  in  such  utter  detestation 


204  Neg  Creol. 

that  she  had  cut  their  pictures  out  of  her 
prayer-book. 

Then  Mamzelle  Aglae  pretended  not  to 
care  what  Chicot  had  in  his  bag.  He  drew 
forth  a  small  hunk  of  beef  and  laid  it  in  her 
basket  that  stood  on  the  bare  floor.  She  looked 
from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  and  went  on  dust- 
ing the  table.  He  brought  out  a  handful 
of  potatoes,  some  pieces  of  sliced  fish,  a  few 
herbs,  a  yard  of  calico,  and  a  small  pat  of  but- 
ter wrapped  in  lettuce  leaves.  He  was  proud 
of  the  butter,  and  wanted  her  to  notice  it.  He 
held  it  out  and  asked  her  for  something  to  put 
it  on.  She  handed  him  a  saucer,  and  looked 
indifferent  and  resigned,  with  lifted  eyebrows. 

"Pas  d'  sucre,  Neg?" 

Chicot  shook  his  head  and  scratched  it,  and 
looked  like  a  black  picture  of  distress  and 
mortification.  No  sugar!  But  tomorrow  he 
would  get  a  pinch  here  and  a  pinch  there,  and 
would  bring  as  much  as  a  cupful. 

Mamzelle  Aglae  then  sat  down,  and  talked 
to  Chicot  uninterruptedly  and  confidentially. 
She  complained  bitterly,  and  it  was  all  about 
a  pain  that  lodged  in  her  leg;  that  crept  and 
acted    like    a   live,  stinging  serpent,  twining 


Neg  Creol.  205 

about  her  waist  and  up  her  spine,  and  coiling 
round  the  shoulder-blade.  And  then  les 
rheumatismes  in  her  fingers!  He  could  see 
for  himself  how  they  were  knotted.  She  could 
not  bend  them;  she  could  hold  nothing  in  her 
hands,  and  had  let  a  saucer  fall  that  morning 
and  broken  it  in  pieces.  And  if  she  were  to 
tell  him  that  she  had  slept  a  wink  through  the 
night,  she  would  be  a  liar,  deserving  of  perdi- 
tion. She  had  sat  at  the  window  la  nuit 
blanche,  hearing  the  hours  strike  and  the  mar- 
ket-wagons rumble.  Chicot  nodded,  and  kept 
up  a  running  fire  of  sympathetic  comment 
and  suggestive  remedies  for  rheumatism  and 
insomnia:  herbs,  or  tisanes,  or grigris,  or  all 
three.  As  if  he  knew!  There  was  Purgatory 
Mary,  a  perambulating  soul  whose  office  in 
life  was  to  pray  for  the  shades  in  purgatory, — 
she  had  brought  Mamzelle  Aglae  a  bottle  of 
eau  de  Lourdes,  but  so  little  of  it !  She  might 
have  kept  her  water  of  Lourdes,  for  all  the 
good  it  did, — a  drop!  Not  so  much  as  would 
cure  a  fly  or  a  mosquito!  Mamzelle  Aglae 
was  going  to  show  Purgatory  Mary  the  door 
when  she  came  again,  not  only  because  of 
her  avarice  with  the  Lourdes  water,  but,  be- 


206  Neg  Creol. 

side  that,  she  brought  in  on  her  feet  dirt  that 
could  only  be  removed  with  a  shovel  after 
she  left. 

And  Mamzelle  Aglae  wanted  to  inform  Chi- 
cot that  there  would  be  slaughter  and  blood- 
shed in  la  maison  grise  if  the  people  below 
stairs  did  not  mend  their  ways.  She  was  con- 
vinced that  they  lived  for  no  other  purpose 
than  to  torture  and  molest  her.  The  woman 
kept  a  bucket  of  dirty  water  constantly  on  the 
landing  with  the  hope  of  Mamzelle  Aglae  fall- 
ing over  it  or  into  it.  And  she  knew  that  the 
children  were  instructed  to  gather  in  the  hall 
and  on  the  stairway,  and  scream  and  make  a 
noise  and  jump  up  and  down  like  galloping 
horses,  with  the  intention  of  driving  her  to 
suicide.  Chicot  should  notify  the  policeman 
on  the  beat,  and  have  them  arrested,  if  possi- 
ble, and  thrust  into  the  parish  prison,  where 
they  belonged. 

Chicot  would  have  been  extremely  alarmed 
if  he  had  ever  chanced  to  find  Mamzelle  Ag- 
lae in  an  uncomplaining  mood.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  him  that  she  might  be  otherwise. 
He  felt  that  she  had  a  right  to  quarrel  with 
fate,  if  ever  mortal  had.    Her  poverty  was  a 


Neg  Creol.  207 

disgrace,  and  he  hung  his  head  before  it  and 
felt  ashamed. 

One  day  he  found  Mamzelle  Aglae 
stretched  on  the  bed,  with  her  head  tied  up  in 
a  handkerchief.  Her  sole  complaint  that  day 
was,  "Aie — aie — aie!  Aie — aie — aie!"  uttered 
with  every  breath.  He  had  seen  her  so  be- 
fore, especially  when  the  weather  was  damp. 

"Vous  pas  bezouin  tisane,  Mamzelle  Aglae? 
Vous  pas  veux  mo  cri  gagni  docteur?" 

She  desired  nothing.     "Aie — aie — aie!" 

He  emptied  his  bag  very  quietly,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  her;  and  he  wanted  to  stay  there 
with  her  and  lie  down  on  the  floor  in  case  she 
needed  him,  but  the  woman  from  below  had 
come  up.  She  was  an  Irishwoman  with  rolled 
sleeves. 

"It's  a  shtout  shtick  I'm  afther  giving  her, 
Neg,  and  she  do  but  knock  on  the  flure  it's 
me  or  Janie  or  wan  of  us  that'll  be  hearing 
her." 

"You  too  good,  Brigitte.  Aie — aie — aie! 
Une  goutte  d'eau  sucre,  Neg!  That  Purg'- 
tory  Marie, — you  see  hair,  ma  bonne  Brigitte, 
you  tell  hair  go  say  li'le  prayer  la-bas  au  Ca- 
th edral .  Aie — aie — aie !" 


208  Neg  Creol. 

Neg  could  hear  her  lamentation  as  he 
descended  the  stairs.  It  followed  him  as  he 
limped  his  way  through  the  city  streets,  and 
seemed  part  of  the  city's  noise;  he  could  hear 
it  in  the  rumble  of  wheels  and  jangle  of  car- 
bells,  and  in  the  voices  of  those  passing  by. 

He  stopped  at  Mimotte  the  Voudou's 
shanty  and  bought  a  grigri — a  cheap  one  for 
fifteen  cents.  Mimotte  held  her  charms  at 
all  prices.  This  he  intended  to  introduce  next 
day  into  Mamzelle  Anglae's  room, — some- 
where about  the  altar, — to  the  confusion  and 
discomfort  of  "Michie  bon  Dieu,"  who  per- 
sistently declined  to  concern  himself  with  the 
welfare  of  a  Boisdure. 

At  night,  among  the  reeds  on  the  bayou, 
Chicot  could  still  hear  the  woman's  wail, 
mingled  now  with  the  croaking  of  the  frogs. 
If  he  could  have  been  convinced  that  giving 
up  his  life  down  there  in  the  water  would  in 
any  way  have  bettered  her  condition,  he  would 
not  have  hesitated  to  sacrifice  the  remnant  of 
his  existence  that  was  wholly  devoted  to  her. 
He  lived  but  to  serve  her.  He  did  not  know  it 
himself;  but  Chicot  knew  so  little,  and  that 
little  in    such    a    distorted    way!     He    could 


Neg  Creol.  209 

scarcely  have  been  expected,  even  in  his  most 
lucid  moments,  to  give  himself  over  to  self- 
analysis. 

Chicot  gathered  an  uncommon  amount  of 
dainties  at  market  the  following  day.  He  had 
to  work  hard,  and  scheme  and  whine  a  little; 
but  he  got  hold  of  an  orange  and  a  lump  of  ice 
and  a  chou-jleur.  He  did  not  drink  his  cup 
of  cafi  aa  lait,  but  asked  Mimi  Lambeau  to 
put  it  in  the  little  new  tin  pail  that  the  Hebrew 
notion-vender  had  just 'given  him  in  exchange 
for  a  mess  of  shrimps.  This  time,  however, 
Chicot  had  his  trouble  for  nothing.  When 
he  reached  the  upper  room  of  la  maison grise, 
it  was  to  find  that  Mamzelle  Aglae  had  died 
during  the  night.  He  set  his  bag  down  in  the 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  stood  shaking,  and 
whined  low  like  a  dog  in  pain. 

Everything  had  been  done.  The  Irish- 
woman had  gone  for  the  doctor,  and  Purga- 
tory Mary  had  summoned  a  priest.  Further- 
more, the  woman  had  arranged  Mamzelle  Ag- 
lae decently.  She  had  covered  the  table  with 
a  white  cloth,  and  had  placed  it  at  the  head 
of  the  bed,  with  the  crucifix  and  two  lighted 
candles  in  silver  candlesticks  upon  it;  the  lit- 


210  Neg  Creol. 

tie  bit  of  ornamentation  brightened  and  em- 
bellished the  poor  room.  Purgatory  Mary, 
dressed  in  shabby  black,  fat  and  breathing 
hard,  sat  reading  half  audibly  from  a  prayer- 
book.  She  was  watching  the  dead  and  the 
silver  candlesticks,  which  she  had  borrowed 
from  a  benevolent  society,  and  for  which  she 
held  herself  responsible.  A  young  man  was 
just  leaving, —  a  reporter  snuffing  the  air  for 
items,  who  had  scented  one  up  there  in  the 
top  room  of  la  maison  grise. 

All  the  morning  Janie  had  been  escorting  a 
procession  of  street  Arabs  up  and  down  the 
stairs  to  view  the  .remains.  One  of  them — a 
little  girl,  who  had  had  her  face  washed  and 
had  made  a  species  of  toilet  for  the  occasion 
— refused  to  be  dragged  away.  She  stayed 
seated  as  if  at  an  entertainment,  fascinated  al- 
ternately by  the  long,  still  figure  of  Mamzelle 
Aglae,  the  mumbling  lips  of  Purgatory  Mary, 
and  the  silver  candlesticks. 

"Will  ye  get  down  on  yer  knees,  man,  and 
say  a  prayer  for  the  dead!"  commanded  the 
woman. 

But  Chicot  only  shook  his  head,  and  re- 
fused to  obey.     He  approached  the  bed,  and 


Neg  Creol.  211 

laid  a  little  black  paw  for  a  moment  on  the 
stiffened  body  of  Mamzelle  Aglae.  There  was 
nothing  for  him  to  do  here.  He  picked  up 
his  old  ragged  hat  and  his  bag  and  went 
away. 

"The  black  h'athen!"  the  woman  muttered. 
"Shut  the  dure,  child." 

The  little  girl  slid  down  from  her  chair, 
and  went  on  tiptoe  to  shut  the  door  which  Chi- 
cot had  left  open.  Having  resumed  her  seat, 
she  fastened  her  eyes  upon  Purgatory  Mary's 
heaving  chest. 

"You,  Chicot!"  cried  Matteo's  wife  the  next 
morning.  "My  man,  he  read  in  paper  'bout 
woman  name'  Boisdure,  use'  b'long  to  big-a 
famny.  She  die  roun'  on  St.  Philip — po', 
same-a  like  church  rat.  It's  any  them  Bois- 
dures  you  alia  talk  'bout?" 

Chicot  shook  his  head  in  slow  but  emphatic 
denial.  No,  indeed,  the  woman  was  not  of 
kin  to  his  Boisdures.  He  surely  had  told  Mat- 
teo's  wife  often  enough — how  many  times  did 
he  have  to  repeat  it! — of  their  wealth,  their 
social  standing.  It  was  doubtless  some  Bois- 
dure of  les  Attakapas;  it  was  none  of  his. 


212  Neg  Creol. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  small  funeral  pro- 
cession passing  a  little  distance  away, — a 
hearse  and  a  carriage  or  two.  There  was  the 
priest  who  had  attended  Mamzelle  Aglae,  and 
a  benevolent  Creole  gentleman  whose  father 
had  known  the  Boisdures  in  his  youth.  There 
was  a  couple  of  player-folk,  who,  having  got 
wind  of  the  story,  had  thrust  their  hands  into 
their  pockets. 

"Look,  Chicot!"  cried  Matteo's  wife. 
"Yonda  go  the  fune'al.  Mus-a  be  that-a  Bois- 
dure  woman  we  talken  'bout  yesaday." 

But  Chicot  paid  no  heed.  What  was  to 
him  the  funeral  of  a  woman  who  had  died  in 
St.  Philip  street?  He  did  not  even  turn  his 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  moving  proces- 
sion.   He  went  on  scaling  his  red-snapper. 


S 


The  Lilies 


The  Lilies 


THAT  little  vagabond  Mamouche  am- 
used himself  one  afternoon  by  letting 
down  the  fence  rails  that  protected  Mr. 
Billy's  young  crop  of  cotton  and  corn.  He 
had  first  looked  carefully  about  him  to  make 
sure  there  was  no  witness  to  this  piece  of  ras- 
cality. Then  he  crossed  the  lane  and  did  the 
same  with  the  Widow  Angele's  fence,  thereby 
liberating  Toto,  the  white  calf  who  stood  dis- 
consolately penned  up  on  the  other  side. 

It  was  not  ten  seconds  before  Toto  was 
frolicking  madly  in  Mr.  Billy's  crop,  and  Ma- 
mouche— the  young  scamp — was  running 
swiftly  down  the  lane,  laughing  fiendishly  to 
himself  as  he  went. 

He  could  not  at  first  decide  whether  there 
could  be  more  fun  in  letting  Toto  demolish 
things  at  hispleasure,or  in  warning  Mr.  Billy 
of  the  calf's  presence  in  the  field.    But  the  lat- 

215 


2i6  The  Lilies. 

ter  course  commended  itself  as  possessing  a 
certain  refinement  of  perfidy. 

"Ho,  the'a,  you!"  called  out  Mamouche  to 
one  of  Mr.  Billy's  hands,  when  he  got  around 
to  where  the  men  were  at  work;  "you  betta 
go  yon'a  an'  see  'bout  that  calf  o'  Ma'me  An- 
gele;  he  done  broke  in  the  fiel'  an'  'bout  to 
finish  the  crop,  him."  Then  Mamouche  went 
and  sat  behind  a  big  tree,  where,  unobserved, 
he  could  laugh  to  his  heart's  content. 

Mr.  Billy's  fury  was  unbounded  when  he 
learned  that  Madame  Angele's  calf  was  eat- 
ing up  and  trampling  down  his  corn.  At  once 
he  sent  a  detachment  of  men  and  boys  to  ex- 
pel the  animal  from  the  field.  Others  were 
required  to  repair  the  damaged  fence;  while 
he  himself,  boiling  with  wrath,  rode  up  the 
lane  on  his  wicked  black  charger. 

But  merely  to  look  upon  the  devastation 
was  not  enough  for  Mr.  Billy.  He  dismount- 
ed from  his  horse,  and  strode  belligerently  up 
to  Madame  Angele's  door,  upon  which  he 
gave,  with  his  riding-whip,  a  couple  of  sharp 
raps  that  plainly  indicated  the  condition  of 
his  mind. 


The  Lilies.  217 

Mr.  Billy  looked  taller  and  broader  than 
ever  as  he  squared  himself  on  the  gallery  of 
Madame  Angele's  small  and  modest  house. 
She  herself  half-opened  the  door,  a  pale, 
sweet-looking  woman,  somewhat  bewildered, 
and  holding  a  piece  of  sewing  in  her  hands. 
Little  Marie  Louise  was  beside  her,  with  big, 
inquiring,  frightened  eyes. 

"Well,  Madam!"  blustered  Mr.  Billy,  "this 
is  a  pretty  piece  of  work!  That  young  beast 
of  yours  is  a  fence-breaker,  Madam,  and  ought 
to  be  shot." 

"Oh,  non,  non,  M'sieur.  Toto's  too  li'le; 
I'm  sho  he  can't  break  any  fence,  him." 

"Don't  contradict  me,  Madam.  I  say  he's 
a  fence-breaker.  There's  the  proof  before 
your  eyes.  He  ought  to  be  shot,  I  say,  and 
— don't  let  it  occur  again,  Madam."  And 
Mr.  Billy  turned  and  stamped  down  the  steps 
with  a  great  clatter  of  spurs  as  he  went. 

Madame  Angele  was  at  the  time  in  desper- 
ate haste  to  finish  a  young  lady's  Easter 
dress,  and  she  could  not  afford  to  let  Toto's 
escapade  occupy  her  to  any  extent,  much  as 
she  regretted  it.  But  little  Marie  Louise  was 
greatly  impressed  by  the  affair.   She  went  out 


218  The  Lilies. 

in  the  yard  to  Toto,  who  was  under  the  fig- 
tree,  looking  not  half  so  shamefaced  as  he 
ought.  The  child,  with  arms  clasped  around 
the  little  fellow's  white  shaggy  neck,  scolded 
him  roundly. 

"Ain't  you  shame',  Toto,  to  go  eat  up  Mr. 
Billy's  cotton  an'  co'n?  Wat  Mr.  Billy  ev'a 
done  to  you,  to  go  do  him  that  way?  If  you 
been  hungry,  Toto,  w'y  you  did'n'  come  like 
always  an'  put  yo'  head  in  the  winda?  I'm 
goin'  tell  yo'  maman  w'en  she  come-  back 
f'om  the  woods  to  's'evenin',  M'sieur. 

Marie  Louise  only  ceased  her  mild  rebuke 
when  she  fancied  she  saw  a  penitential  look  in 
Toto's  big  soft  eyes. 

She  had  a  keen  instinct  of  right  and  justice 
for  so  young  a  little  maid.  And  all  the  after- 
noon, and  long  into  the  night,  she  was  dis- 
turbed by  the  thought  of  the  unfortunate  ac- 
cident. Of  course,  there  could  be  no  question 
of  repaying  Mr.  Billy  with  money;  she  and 
her  mother  had  none.  Neither  had  they  cot- 
ton and  corn  with  which  to  make  good  the 
loss  he  had  sustained  through  them. 

But  had  they  not  something  far  more  beau- 
tiful   and    precious    than    cotton    and    corn? 


The  Lilies.  219 

Marie  Louise  thought  with  delight  of  that 
row  of  Easter  lilies  on  their  tall  green  stems, 
ranged  thick  along  the  sunny  side  of  the 
house. 

The  assurance  that  she  would,  after  all,  be 
able  to  satisfy  Mr.  Billy's  just  anger,  was  a 
very  sweet  one.  And  soothed  by  it,  Marie 
Louise  soon  fell  asleep  and  dreamt  a  gro- 
tesque dream:  that  the  lilies  were  having  a 
stately  dance  on  the  green  in  the  moonlight, 
and  were  inviting  Mr.  Billy  to  join  them. 

The  following  day,  when  it  was  nearing  noon, 
Marie  Louise  said  to  her  mamma:  "Maman, 
can  I  have  some  of  the  Easter  lily,  to  do  with 
like  I  want?" 

Madame  Angele  was  just  then  testing  the 
heat  of  an  iron  with  which  to  press  out  the 
seams  in  the  young  lady's  Easter  dress,  and 
she  answered  a  shade  impatiently : 

"Yes,  yes;  va  t'en,  cherie,"  thinking  that 
her  little  girl  wanted  to  pluck  a  lily  or  two. 

So  the  child  took  a  pair  of  old  shears  from 
her  mother's  basket,  and  out  she  went  to 
where  the  tall,  perfumed  lilies  were  nodding, 
and  shaking  off  from  their  glistening  petals 


220  The  Lilies. 

the  rain-drops  with  which  a  passing  cloud  had 
just  laughingly  pelted  them. 

Snip,  snap,  went  the  shears  here  and  there, 
and  never  did  Marie  Louise  stop  plying  them 
till  scores  of  those  long-stemmed  lilies  lay 
upon  the  ground.  There  were  far  more  than 
she  could  hold  in  her  small  hands,  so  she 
literally  clasped  the  great  bunch  in  her  arms, 
and  staggered  to  her  feet  with  it. 

Marie  Louise  was  intent  upon  her  purpose, 
and  lost  no  time  in  its  accomplishment.  She 
was  soon  trudging  earnestly  down  the  lane 
with  her  sweet  burden,  never  stopping,  and 
only  one  glancing  aside  to  cast  a  reproachful 
look  at  Toto,  whom  she  had  not  wholly  for- 
given. 

She  did  not  in  the  least  mind  that  the  dogs 
barked,  or  that  the  darkies  laughed  at  her. 
She  went  straight  on  to  Mr.  Billy's  big  house, 
and  right  into  the  dining-room,  where  Mr. 
Billy  sat  eating  his  dinner  all  alone. 

It  was  a  finely-furnished  room,  but  disor- 
derly— very  disorderly,  as  an  old  bachelor's 
personal  surroundings  sometimes  are.  A 
black  boy  stood  waiting  upon  the  table.  When 
little  Marie  Louise  suddenly  appeared,  with 


The  Lilies.  221 

that  armful  of  lilies,  Mr.  Billy  seemed  for  a 
moment  transfixed  at  the  sight. 

"Well — bless — my  soul!  what's  all  this? 
What's  airthis?"  he  questioned,  with  staring 
eyes. 

Marie  Louise  had  already  made  a  little 
courtesy.  Her  sunbonnet  had  fallen  back, 
leaving  exposed  her  pretty  round  head;  and 
her  sweet  brown  eyes  were  full  of  confidence 
as  they  looked  into  Mr.   Billy's. 

"I'm  bring  some  lilies  to  pay  back  fo'  yo' 
cotton  an'  co'n  w'at  Toto  eat  all  up,  M'sieur." 

Mr.  Billy  turned  savagely  upon  Pompey. 
"What  are  you  laughing  at,  you  black  rascal? 
Leave  the  room!" 

Pompey,  who  out  of  mistaken  zeal  had 
doubled  himself  with  merriment,  was  too  ac- 
customed to  the  admonition  to  heed  it  liter- 
ally, and  he  only  made  a  pretense  of  with- 
drawing from  Mr.  Billy's  elbow. 

"Lilies!  well,  upon  my — isn't  it  the  little  one 
from  across  the  lane?" 

"Dat's  who,"  affirmed  Pompey,  cautiously 
insinuating  himself  again  into  favor. 

"Lilies!  who  ever  heard  the  like?  Why,  the 
baby's    buried    under  'em.     Set   'em    down 


222  The  Lilies. 

somewhere,  little  one;  anywhere."  And 
Marie  Louise,  glad  to  be  relieved  from  the 
weight  of  the  great  cluster,  dumped  them  all 
on  the  table  close  to  Mr.  Billy. 

The  perfume  that  came  from  the  damp, 
massed  flowers  was  heavy  and  almost  sicken- 
ing in  its  pungency.  Mr.  Billy  quivered  a 
little,  and  drew  involuntarily  back,  as  if  from 
an  unexpected  assailant,  when  the  odor 
reached  him.  He  had  been  making  cotton 
and  corn  for  so  many  years,  he  had  forgotten 
there  were  such  things  as  lilies  in  the  world. 

"Kiar  'em  out?  fling  'em  'way?"  questioned 
Pompey,  who  had  observed  his  master  cun- 
ningly. 

"Let  'em  alone!  Keep  your  hands  off 
them!  Leave  the  room,  you  outlandish  black 
scamp!  What  are  you  standing  there  for? 
Can't  you  set  the  Mamzelle  a  place  at  table, 
and  draw  up  a  chair?" 

So  Marie  Louise — perched  upon  a  fine  old- 
fashioned  chair,  supplemented  by  a  Webster's 
Unabridged — sat  down  to  dine  with  Mr. 
Billy. 

She  had  never  eaten  in  company  with  so 
peculiar  a  gentleman  before;  so  irascible  to- 


The  Lilies.  223 

ward  the  inoffensive  Pompey,  and  so  courte- 
ous to  herself.  But  she  was  not  ill  at  ease, 
and  conducted  herself  properly  as  her  mamma 
had  taught  her  how. 

Mr.  Billy  was  anxious  that  she  should  en- 
joy her  dinner,  and  began  by  helping  her  gen- 
erously to  Jambalaya.  When  she  had  tasted 
it  she  made  no  remark,  only  laid  down  her 
fork,  and  looked  composedly  before  her. 

"Why,  bless  me!  what  ails  the  little  one? 
You  don't  eat  your  rice." 

"It  ain't  cook',  M'sieur,"  replied  Marie 
Louise  politely. 

Pompey  nearly  strangled  in  his  attempt  to 
smother  an  explosion. 

"Of  course  it  isn't  cooked,"  echoed  Mr. 
Billy,  excitedly,  pushing  away  his  plate.  "What 
do  you  mean,  setting  a  mess  of  that  sort  be- 
fore human  beings?  Do  you  take  us  for  a 
couple  of — of  rice-birds?  What  are  you  stand- 
ing there  for;  can't  you  look  up  some  jam 
or  something  to  keep  the  young  one  from 
starving?  Where's  all  that  jam  I  saw  stewing 
a  while  back,  here?" 

Pompey  withdrew,  and  soon  returned  with 
a  platter  of  black-looking  jam.     Mr.  Billy  or- 


224  The  Lilies. 

dered  cream  for  it.  Pompey  reported  there 
was  none. 

"No  cream,  with  twenty-five  cows  on  the 
plantation  if  there's  one!"  cried  Mr.  Billy,  al- 
most springing  from  his  chair  with  indigna- 
tion. 

"Aunt  Printy  'low  she  sot  de  pan  o'  cream 
on  de  winda-sell,  suh,  an'  Unc'  Jonah  come 
'long  an'  tu'n  it  cl'ar  ova;  neva  lef  a  drap  in 
de  pan." 

But  evidently  the  jam,  with  or  without 
cream,  was  as  distasteful  to  Marie  Louise  as 
the  rice  was;  for  after  tasting  it  gingerly  she 
laid  away  her  spoon  as  she  had  done  before. 

"O,  no!  little  one;  you  don't  tell  me  it  isn't 
cooked  this  time,"  laughed  Mr.  Billy.  "I  saw 
the  thing  boiling  a  day  and  a  half.  Wasn't  it 
a  day  and  a  half,  Pompey?  if  you  know  how 
to  tell  the  truth." 

"Aunt  Printy  alluz  do  cooks  her  p'esarves 
tell  dey  plumb  done,  sho,"  agreed  Pompey. 

"It's  burn',  M'sieur,"  said  Marie  Louise,  po- 
litely, but  decidedly,  to  the  utter  confusion  of 
Mr.  Billy,  who  was  as  mortified  as  could  be  at 
the  failure  of  his  dinner  to  please  his  fastidious 
little  visitor. 


The  Lilies.  225 

Well,  Mr.  Billy  thought  of  Marie  Louise  a 
good  deal  after  that;  as  long  as  the  lilies  lasted. 
And  they  lasted  long,  for  he  had  the  whole 
household  employed  in  taking  care  of  them. 
Often  he  would  chuckle  to  himself:  "The  lit- 
tle rogue,  with  her  black  eyes  and  her  lilies! 
And  the  rice  wasn't  cooked,  if  you  please; 
and  the  jam  was  burnt.  And  the  best  of  it  is, 
she  was  right." 

But  when  the  lilies  withered  finally,  and 
had  to  be  thrown  away,  Mr.  Billy  donned  his 
best  suit,  a  starched  shirt  and  fine  silk  neck- 
tie. Thus  attired,  he  crossed  the  lane  to  carry 
his  somewhat  tardy  apologies  to  Madame  An- 
gele  and  Mamzelle  Marie  Louise,  and  to  pay 
them  a  first  visit. 


Azelie 


Azelie 

AZELIE  crossed  the  yard  with  slow,  hesi- 
tating steps.  She  wore  a  pink  sunbon- 
net  and  a  faded  calico  dress  that  had 
been  made  the  summer  before,  and  was  now 
too  small  for  her  in  every  way.  She  carried  a 
large  tin  pail  on  her  arm.  When  within  a  few 
yards  of  the  house  she  stopped  under  a  china- 
berry-tree,  quite  still,  except  for  the  occasional 
slow  turning  of  her  head  from  side  to  side. 

Mr.  Mathurin,  from  his  elevation  upon  the 
upper  gallery,  laughed  when  he  saw  her;  for 
he  knew  she  would  stay  there,  motionless,  till 
some  one  noticed  and  questioned  her. 

The  planter  was  just  home  from  the  city, 
and  was  therefore  in  an  excellent  humor,  as 
he  always  was,  on  getting  back  to  what  he 
called  le  grand  atr,  the  space  and  stillness  of 
the  country,  and  the  scent  of  the  fields.  He 
was  in  shirtsleeves,  walking  around  the  gal- 


230  Azelie. 

lery  that  encircled  the  big  square  white  house. 
Beneath  was  a  brick-paved  portico  upon  which 
the  lower  rooms  opened.  At  wide  intervals 
were  large  whitewashed  pillars  that  supported 
the  upper  gallery. 

In  one  corner  of  the  lower  house  was  the 
store,  which  was  in  no  sense  a  store  for  the 
general  public,  but  maintained  only  to  supply 
the  needs  of  Mr.  Mathurin's  "hands." 

"Eh  bien!  what  do  you  want,  Azelie  ?"  the 
planter  finally  called  out  to  the  girl  in  French. 
She  advanced  a  few  paces,  and,  pushing  back 
her  sunbonnet,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  gentle, 
inoffensive  face — "to  which  you  would  give 
the  good  God  without  confession,"  he  once 
described  it. 

"Bon  jou,)  M'si'  Mathurin,"  she  replied; 
and  continued  in  English :  "I  come  git  a  li'le 
piece  o'  meat.     We  plumb  out  o'  meat  home." 

"Well,  well,  the  meat  is  n'  going  to  walk 
to  you,  my  chile:  it  has  n'  got  feet.  Go  fine 
Mr.  'Polyte.  He's  yonda  mending  his  buggy 
unda  the  shed."  She  turned  away  with  an 
alert  little  step,  and  went  in  search  of  Mr. 
Tolyte. 


Azelie.  231 

"That's  you  again!"  the  young  man  ex- 
claimed, with  a  pretended  air  of  annoyance, 
when  he  saw  her.  He  straightened  himself, 
and  looked  down  at  her  and  her  pail  with  a 
comprehending  glance.  The  sweat  was 
standing  in  shining  beads  on  his  brown,  good- 
looking  face.  He  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and 
the  legs  of  his  trousers  were  thrust  into  the 
tops  of  his  fine,  high-heeled  boots.  He  wore 
his  straw  hat  very  much  on  one  side,  and 
had  an  air  that  was  altogether fanfar on.  He 
reached  to  a  back  pocket  for  the  store  key, 
which  was  as  large  as  the  pistol  that  he  some- 
times carried  in  the  same  place.  She  followed 
him  across  the  thick,  tufted  grass  of  the  yard 
with  quick,  short  steps  that  strove  to  keep 
pace  with  his  longer,  swinging  ones. 

When  he  had  unlocked  and  opened  the 
heavy  door  of  the  store,  there  escaped  from 
the  close  room  the  strong,  pungent  odor  of 
the  varied  wares  and  provisions  massed  with- 
in. Azelie  seemed  to  like  the  odor,  and,  lift- 
ing her  head,  snuffed  the  air  as  people  some- 
times do  upon  entering  a  conservatory  filled 
with  fragrant  flowers. 


232  Azelie. 

A  broad  ray  of  light  streamed  in  through 
the  open  door,  illumining  the  dingy  interior. 
The  double  wooden  shutters  of  the  windows 
were  all  closed,  and  secured  on  the  inside  by 
iron  hooks. 

"Well,  w'at  you  want,  Azelie?"  asked  'Po- 
lyte,  going  behind  the  counter  with  an  air  of 
hurry  and  importance.  "I  ain't  got  time  to 
fool.     Make  has'e;  say  w'at  you  want." 

Her  reply  was  precisely  the  same  that  she 
had  made  to  Mr.  Mathurin. 

"I  come  git  a  li'le  piece  o'  meat.  We  plumb 
out  o'  meat  home." 

He  seemed  exasperated. 

"Bonte!  w'at  you  all  do  with  meat  yonda? 
You  don't  reflec'  you  about  to  eat  up  yo'  crop 
befo'  it's  good  out  o'  the  groun',  you  all.  I 
like  to  know  w'y  yo'  pa  don't  go  he'p  with  the 
killin'  once  aw'ile,  an'  git  some  fresh  meat  fo' 
a  change." 

She  answered  in  an  unshaded,  unmodulated 
voice  that  was  penetrating,  like  a  child's: 
"Popa  he  do  go  he'p  wid  the  killin';  but  he 
say  he  can't  work  'less  he  got  salt  meat.  He 
got  plenty  to  feed — him.  He's  got  to  hire 
he'p  wid  his  crop,  an'  he's  boun'  to  feed  'em; 


Azelie.  233 

they  won't  year  no  diffe'nt.    An'  he's  got 
gra'ma  to  feed,  an'  Sauterelle,  an'  me — " 

"An'  all  the  lazy-bone  'Cadians  in  the  coun- 
try that  know  w'ere  they  goin'  to  fine  the  cof- 
fee-pot always  in  the  corna  of  the  fire,"  grum- 
bled 'Polyte. 

With  an  iron  hook  he  lifted  a  small  piece  of 
salt  meat  from  the  pork  barrel,  weighed  it, 
and  placed  it  in  her  pail.  Then  she  wanted  a 
little  coffee.  He  gave  it  to  her  reluctantly. 
He  was  still  more  loath  to  let  her  have  sugar; 
and  when  she  asked  for  lard,  he  refused  flatly. 

She  had  taken  off  her  sunbonnet,  and  was 
fanning  herself  with  it,  as  she  leaned  with  her 
elbows  upon  the  counter,  and  let  her  eyes 
travel  lingeringly  along  the  well-lined  shelves. 
'Polyte  stood  staring  into  her  face  with  a  sense 
of  aggravation  that  her  presence,  her  manner, 
always  stirred  up  in  him. 

The  face  was  colorless  but  for  the  red, 
curved  line  of  the  lips.  Her  eyes  were  dark, 
wide,  innocent,  questioning  eyes,  and  her 
black  hair  was  plastered  smooth  back  from, 
the  forehead  and  temples.  There  was  no/f 
trace  of  any  intention  of  coquetry  in  her  man-ij 
ner.     He  resented  this  as  a  token  of  mdifferi 


234  Azelie. 

i  ence  toward  his  sex,  and  thought  it  inexcus- 
able. 

"Well,  Azelie,  if  it's  anything  you  don't  see, 
ask  fo'  it,"  he  suggested,  with  what  he  filt- 
ered himself  was  humor.  But  there  was  no 
responsive  humor  in  Azelie's  composition.  She 
seriously  drew  a  small  flask  from  her  pocket. 

"Popa  say,  if  you  want  to  let  him  have  a 
li'le  dram,  'count  o'  his  pains  that's  'bout  to 
cripple  him." 

"Yo'  pa  knows  as  well  as  I  do  we  don't 
sell  w'isky.  Mr.  Mathurin  don't  carry  no  li- 
cense." 

"I  know*  He  say  if  you  want  to  give  'im 
a  li'le  dram,  he's  willin'  to  do  some  work  fo' 
you." 

"No!  Once  fo'  all,  no!"  And  'Polyte 
reached  for  the  day-book,  in  which  to  enter 
the  articles  he  had  given  to  her. 

But  Azelie's  needs  were  not  yet  satisfied. 
She  wanted  tobacco;  he  would  not  give  it  to 
her.  A  spool  of  thread;  he  rolled  one  up,  to- 
gether with  two  sticks  of  peppermint  candy, 
and  placed  it  in  her  pail.  When  she  asked 
for  a  bottle  of  coal-oil,  he  grudgingly  con- 
sented, but  assured  her  it  would  be  useless  to 


Azelie.  235 

cudgel  her  brain  further,  for  he  would  posi- 
tively let  her  have  nothing  more.  He  dis- 
appeared toward  the  coal-oil  tank,  which  was 
hidden  from  view  behind  the  piled-up  boxes 
on  the  counter.  When  she  heard  him  search- 
ing for  an  empty  quart  bottle,  and  making  a 
clatter  with  the  tin  funnels,  she  herself  with- 
drew from  the  counter  against  which  she  had 
been  leaning. 

After  they  quitted  the  store,  Tolyte,  with  a 
perplexed  expression  upon  his  face,  leaned  for 
a  moment  against  one  of  the  whitewashed 
pillars,  watching  the  girl  cross  the  yard.  She 
had  folded  her  sunbonnet  into  a  pad,  which 
she  placed  beneath  the  heavy  pail  that  she 
balanced  upon  her  head.  She  walked  upright, 
with  a  slow,  careful  tread.  Two  of  the  yard 
dogs  that  had  stood  a  moment  before  upon 
the  threshold  of  the  store  door,  quivering  and 
wagging  their  tails,  were  following  her  now, 
with  a  little  businesslike  trot.  Tolyte  called 
them  back. 

The  cabin  which  the  girl  occupied  with  her 
father,  her  grandmother,  and  her  little  brother 
Sauterelle,  was  removed  some  distance  from 
the  plantation  house,  and  only  its  pointed  roof 


236  Azelie. 

could  be  discerned  like  a  speck  far  away  across 
the  field  of  cotton,  which  was  all  in  bloom. 
Her  figure  soon  disappeared  from  view,  and 
'Polyte  emerged  from  the  shelter  of  the  gal- 
lery, and  started  again  toward  his  interrupted 
task.  He  turned  to  say  to  the  planter,  who 
was  keeping  up  his  measured  tramp  above: 

"Mr.  Mathurin,  ain't  it  'mos'  time  to  stop 
givin'  credit  to  Arsene  Pauche.  Look  like 
that  crop  o'  his  ain't  goin'  to  start  to  pay  his 
account.  I  don't  see,  me,  anyway,  how  you 
come  to  take  that  triflin'  Li'le  river  gang  on 
the  place." 

"I  know  it  was  a  mistake,  'Polyte,  but  que 
voulez-vous?"  the  planter  returned,  with  a 
good-natured  shrug.  "Now  they  are  yere,  we 
can't  let  them  starve,  my  frien\  Push  them 
to  work  all  you  can.  Hole  back  all  supplies 
that  are  not  necessary,  an'  nex'  year  we  will 
let  some  one  else  enjoy  the  privilege  of  feed- 
ing them,"  he  ended,  with  a  laugh. 

"I  wish  they  was  all  back  on  Li'le  river," 
'Polyte  muttered  under  his  breath  as  he 
turned  and  walked  slowly  away. 

Directly  back  of  the  store  was  the  young 
man's  sleeping-room.     He  had  made  himself 


Azelie.  237 

quite  comfortable  there  in  his  corner.  He  had 
screened  his  windows  and  doors;  planted  Ma- 
deira vines,  which  now  formed  a  thick  green 
curtain  between  the  two  pillars  that  faced  his 
room;  and  had  swung  a  hammock  out  there, 
in  which  he  liked  well  to  repose  himself  after 
the  fatigues  of  the  day. 

He  lay  long  in  the  hammock  that  evening, 
thinking  over  the  day's  happenings  and  the 
morrow's  work,  half  dozing,  half  dreaming, 
and  wholly  possessed  by  the  charm  of  the 
night,  the  warm,  sweeping  air  that  blew 
through  the  long  corridor,  and  the  almost  un- 
broken stillness  that  enveloped  him. 

At  times  his  random  thoughts  formed  them- 
selves into  an  almost  inaudible  speech:  "I 
wish  she  would  go  'way  f'om  yere." 

One  of  the  dogs  came  and  thrust  his  cool, 
moist  muzzle  against  'Polyte's  cheek.  He  ca- 
ressed the  fellow's  shaggy  head.  "I  don't 
know  w'at's  the  matta  with  her,"  he  sighed; 
"I  don'  b'lieve  she's  got  good  sense." 

It  was  a  long  time  afterward  that  he  mur- 
mured again:  "I  wish  to  God  she'd  go  'way 
f'om  yere!" 


238  Azelie. 

The  edge  of  the  moon  crept  up — a  keen, 
curved  blade  of  light  above  the  dark  line  of 
the  cotton-field.  'Polyte  roused  himself  when 
he  saw  it.  "I  didn'  know  it  was  so  late,"  he 
said  to  himself — or  to  his  dog.  He  entered 
his  room  at  once,  and  was  soon  in  bed,  sleep- 
ing soundly. 

It  was  some  hours  later  that  Tolyte  was 
roused  from  his  sleep  by — he  did  not  know 
what;  his  senses  were  too  scattered  and  con- 
fused to  determine  at  once.  There  was  at 
first  no  sound ;  then  so  faint  a  one  that  he  won- 
dered how  he  could  have  heard  it.  A  door  of 
his  room  communicated  with  the  store,  but 
this  door  was  never  used,  and  was  almost 
completely  blocked  by  wares  piled  up  on  the 
other  side.  The  faint  noise  that  Tolyte  heard, 
and  which  came  from  within  the  store,  was 
followed  by  a  flare  of  light  that  he  could  dis- 
cern through  the  chinks,  and  that  lasted  as 
long  as  a  match  might  burn. 

He  was  now  fully  aware  that  some  one  wa9 
in  the  store.  How  the  intruder  had  entered 
He  could  not  guess,  for  the  key  was  under 
his  pillow  with  his  watch  and  his  pistol. 


Azelie.  239 

As  cautiously  as  he  could  he  donned  an 
extra  garment,  thrust  his  bare  feet  into  slip- 
pers, and  crept  out  into  the  portico,  pistol  in 
hand. 

The  shutters  of  one  of  the  store  windows 
were  open.  He  stood  close  to  it,  and  waited, 
which  he  considered  surer  and  safer  than  to 
enter  the  dark  and  crowded  confines  of  the 
store  to  engage  in  what  might  prove  a  boot- 
less struggle  with  the  intruder. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments some  one  darted  through  the  open  win- 
dow as  nimbly  as  a  cat.  Tolyte  staggered 
back  as  if  a  heavy  blow  had  stunned  him.  His 
first  thought  and  his  first  exclamation  were: 
"My  God!  how  close  I  come  to  killin'  you!" 

It  was  Azelie.  She  uttered  no  cry,  but 
made  one  quick  effort  to  run  when  she  saw 
him.  He  seized  her  arm  and  held  her  with 
a  brutal  grip.  He  put  the  pistol  back  into 
his  pocket.  He  was  shaking  like  a  man  with 
the  palsy.  One  by  one  he  took  from  her  the 
parcels  she  was  carrying,  and  flung  them 
back  into  the  store.  There  were  not  many: 
some  packages  of  tobacco,  a  cheap  pipe,  some 
fishing-tackle,  and  the  flask  which  she  had 


240  Azelie. 

brought  with  her  in  the  afternoon.  This  he 
threw  into  the  yard.  It  was  still  empty,  for 
she  had  not  been  able  to  find  the  "key"  to 
the  whisky-barrel. 

"So — so,  you  a  thief!"  he  muttered  savagely 
under  his  breath. 

"You  hurtin'  me,  Mr.  Tolyte,"  she  com- 
plained, squirming.  He  somewhat  relaxed, 
but  did  not  relinquish,  his  hold  upon  her. 

"I  ain't  no  thief,"  she  blurted. 

"You  was  stealing"  he  contradicted  her 
sharply. 

"I  wasn'  stealin'.  I  was  jus*  takin'  a  few 
li'le  things  you  all  too  mean  to  gi'  me.  You 
all  treat  my  popa  like  he  was  a  dog.  It's  on'y 
las*  week  Mr.  Mathurin  sen'  'way  to  the  city 
to  fetch  a  fine  buckboa'd  fo'  Son  Ambroise, 
an'  he's  on'y  a  nigga,  apres  tout.  An'  my  popa 
he  want  a  picayune  tobacca?  It's  'No' — " 
She  spoke  loud  in  her  monotonous,  shrill 
voice.  Tolyte  kept  saying:  "Hush,  I  tell 
you!  Hush!  Somebody'll  year  you.  Hush! 
It's  enough  you  broke  in  the  sto' — how  you 
got  in  the  sto'?"  he  added,  looking  from  her 
to  the  open  window. 


Azelie.  241 

"It  was  w'en  you  was  behine  the  boxes  to 
the  coal-oil  tank — I  unhook'  it,"  she  explained 
sullenly. 

"An'  you  don'  know  I  could  sen*  you  to 
Baton  Rouge  fo'  that?"  He  shook  her  as 
though  trying  to  rouse  her  to  a  comprehen- 
sion of  her  grievous  fault. 

"Jus'  f0'  a  li'le  picayune  o'  tobacca!"  she 
whimpered. 

He  suddenly  abandoned  his  hold  upon  her, 
and  left  her  free.  She  mechanically  rubbed 
the  arm  that  he  had  grasped  so  violently. 

Between  the  long  row  of  pillars  the  moon 
was  sending  pale  beams  of  light.  In  one  of 
these  they  were  standing. 

"Azelie,"  he  said,  "go  'way  f'om  yere  quick; 
some  one  might  fine  you  yere.  W'en  you  want 
something  in  the  sto',  fo'  yo'se'f  or  fo'  yo'  pa 
— I  don'  care — ask  me  fo'  it.  But  you — but 
you  can't  neva  set  yo'  foot  inside  that  sto' 
again.  Co  'way  f'om  yere  quick  as  you  can, 
I  tell  you!" 

She  tried  in  no  way  to  conciliate  him.  She 
turned  and  walked  away  over  the  same  ground 
she  had  crossed  before.  One  of  the  big  dogs 
started  to  follow  her.    'Polyte  did  not  call  him 


24-2  Azelie. 

back  this  time.  He  •  knew  no  harm  could 
come  to  her,  going  through  those  lonely 
fields,  while  the  animal  was  at  her  side. 

He  went  at  once  to  his  room  for  the  store 
key  that  was  beneath  his  pillow.  He  entered 
the  store,  and  refastened  the  window.  When 
he  had  made  everything  once  more  secure, 
he  sat  dejectedly  down  upon  a  bench  that  was 
in  the  portico.  He  sat  for  a  long  time  mo- 
tionless. Then,  overcome  by  some  powerful 
feeling  that  was  at  work  within  him,  he  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands  and  wept,  his  whole  body 
shaken  by  the  violence  of  Jiis  sobs. 

After  that  night  'Polyte  loved  Azelie  desper- 
ately ?~  The  very  action  which  sHouTdTiave 
revolted  him  had  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to 
inflame  him  with  love.  JHe  felt  that  Jove  to 
be_a  degradation — something  that  heuwas-at- 
most  ashamed  to  acknowledge  to  himself;  and 
he  Fnew~~1:hat~he~was~  hopelessly  unable  to 
stifle  it. 

He  watched  now  in  a  tremor  for  her  com- 
ing. She  came  very  often,  for  she  remem- 
bered every  word  he  had  said;  and  she  did  not 
hesitate  to  ask  him  for  those  luxuries  which 
she  considered  necessities  to  her  "popa's"  ex- 


Azelie.  243 

istence.  She  never  attempted  to  enter  the 
store,  but  always  waited  outside,  of  her  own 
accord,  laughing,  and  playing  with  the  dogs. 
She  seemed  to  have  no  shame  or  regret  for 
what  she  had  done,  and  plainly  did  not  realize 
that  it  was  a  disgraceful  act.  'Polyte  often 
shuddered  with  disgust  to  discern  in  her  a  be- 
ing so  wholly  devoid  of  moral  sense. 

He  had  always  been  an  industrious,  bustling 
fellow,  never  idle.  Now  there  were  hours  and 
hours  in  which  he  did  nothing  but  long  for 
the  sight  of  Azelie.  Even  when  at  work 
there  was  that  gnawing  want  at  his  heart  to 
see  her,  often  so  urgent  that  he  would  leave 
everything  to  wander  down  by  her  cabin  with 
the  hope  of  seeing  her.  It  was  even  some- 
thing if  he  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  Sauterelle 
playing  in  the  weeds,  or  of  Arsene  lazily  drag- 
ging himself  about,  and  smoking  the  pipe 
which  rarely  left  his  lips  now  that  he  was  kept 
so  well  supplied  with  tobacco. 

Once,  down  the  bank  of  the  bayou,  when 
'Polyte  came  upon  Azelie  unexpectedly,  and 
was  therefore  unprepared  to  resist  the  shock 
of  her  sudden  appearance,  he  seized  her  in  his 
arms,  and  covered  her  face  with  kisses.     She 


244  Azelie. 

was  not  indignant;  she  was  not  flustered  or 
agitated,  as  might  have  been  a  susceptible, 
coquettish  girl;  she  was  only  astonished,  and 
annoyed. 

"Wat  you  dour',  Mr.  Tolyte?"  she  cried, 
struggling.  "Leave  me  'lone,  I  say !  Leave  me 
go!" 

"I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  love  you!"  he 
stammered  helplessly  over  and  over  in  her 
face. 

"You  mus'  los'  yo'  head,"  she  told  him, 
red  from  the  effort  of  the  struggle,  when  he 
released  her. 

"You  right,  Azelie;  I  b'lieve  I  los'  my 
head,"  and  he  climbed  up  the  bank  of  the 
bayou  as  fast  as  he  could. 

After  that  his  behavior  was  shameful,  and 
he  knew  it,  and  he  did  not  care.  He  invented 
pretexts  that  would  enable  him  to  touch  her 
hand  with  his.  He  wanted  to  kiss  her  again, 
and  told  her  she  might  come  into  the  store  as 
she  used  to  do.  There  was  no  need  for  her 
to  unhook  a  window  now;  he  gave  her  what- 
ever she  asked  for,  charging  it  always  to  his 
own  account  on  the  books.  She  permitted 
his  caresses  without  returning  them,  and  yet 


Azelie.  245 

that  was  all  he  seemed  to  live  for  now.  He 
gave  her  a  little  gold  ring. 

He  was  looking  eagerly  forward  to  the 
close  of  the  season,  when  Arsene  would  go 
back  to  Little  River.  He  had  arranged  to  ask 
Azelie  to  marry  him.  He  would  keep  her 
with  him  when  the  others  went  away.  He 
longed  to  rescue  her  from  what  he  felt  to  be 
the  demoralizing  influences  of  her  family  and 
her  surroundings.  'Polyte  believed  he  would 
be  able  to  awaken  Azelie  to  finer,  better  im- 
pulses when  he  should  have  her  apart  to  him- 
self. 

But  when  the  time  came  to  propose  it, 
Azelie  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "Ah, 
b'en,  no.  I  ain't  goin'  to  stay  yere  wid  you, 
Mr.  'Polyte;  I'm  goin'  yonda  on  Li'le  river 
wid  my  popa." 

This  resolve  frightened  him,  but  he  pre- 
tended not  to  believe  it. 

"You  jokin',  Azelie;  you  mus'  care  a  li'le 
about  me.  It  looked  to  me  all  along  like  you 
cared  some  about  me." 

"An'  my  popa,  done?    Ah,  b'en,  no." 

"You  don'  rememba  how  lonesome  it  is 
on  Li'le  river,  Azelie,"  he  pleaded.     "Wen- 


246  Azelie. 

ever  I  think  'bout  Lile  river  it  always  make 
me  sad — like  I  think  about  a  graveyard.  To 
me  it's  like  a  person  mus'  die,  one  way  or 
otha,  w'en  they  go  on  Li'le  river.  Oh,  I  hate 
it!  Stay  with  me,  Azelie;  don'  go  'way  f'om 
me." 

She  said  little,  one  way  or  the  other,  after 
that,  when  she  had  fully  understood  his 
wishes,  and  her  reserve  led  him  to  believe, 
since  he  hoped  it,  that  he  had  prevailed  with 
her  and  that  she  had  determined  to  stay  with 
him  and  be  his  wife. 

It  was  a  cool,  crisp  morning  in  December 
that  they  went  away.  In  a  ramshackle 
wagon,  drawn  by  an  ill-mated  team,  Arsene 
Pauche  and  his  family  left  Mr.  Mathurin's 
plantation  for  their  old  familiar  haunts  on  Lit- 
tle river.  The  grandmother,  looking  like  a 
witch,  with  a  black  shawl  tied  over  her  head, 
sat  upon  a  roll  of  bedding  in  the  bottom  of 
the  wagon.  Sauterelle's  bead-like  eyes  glit- 
tered with  mischief  as  he  peeped  over  the 
side.  Azelie,  with  the  pink  sunbonnet  com- 
pletely hiding  her  round  young  face,  sat  be- 
side her  father,  who  drove. 


Azelie.  247 

Tolyte  caught  one  glimpse  of  the  group  as 
they  passed  in  the  road.  Turning,  he  hurried 
into  his  room,  and  locked  himself  in. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  'Polyte's  ser- 
vices were  going  to  count  for  little.  He  him- 
self was  the  first  to  realize  this.  One  day  he 
approached  the  planter,  and  said:  "Mr. 
Mathurin,  befo'  we  start  anotha  year  togetha, 
I  betta  tell  you  I'm  goin'  to  quit."  Tolyte 
stood  upon  the  steps,  and  leaned  back  against 
the  railing.  The  planter  was  a  little  above  on 
the  gallery. 

"Wat  in  the  name  o'  sense  are  you  talk- 
ing about,  Tolyte!"  he  exclaimed  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"It's  jus'  that;  I'm  boun'  to  quit." 

"You  had  a  better  offer?" 

"No;  I  ain't  had  no  offa." 

"Then  explain  yo'se'f,  my  frien' — explain 
yo'se'f,"  requested  Mr.  Mathurin,  with  some- 
thing of  offended  dignity.  "If  you  leave  me, 
w'ere  are  you  going?" 

Tolyte  was  beating  his  leg  with  his  limp 
felt  hat.  "I  reckon  I  jus'  as  well  go  yonda  on 
Li'le  river — w'ere  Azelie,"  he  said. 


Mamouche 


Mamouche 

MAMOUCHE  stood  within  the  open 
doorway,  which  he  had  just  entered. 
It  was  night;  the  rain  was  falling  in 
torrents,  and  the  water  trickled  from  him  as 
it  would  have  done  from  an  umbrella,  if  he 
had  carried  one. 

Old  Doctor  John-Luis,  who  was  toasting 
his  feet  before  a  blazing  hickory-wood  fire, 
turned  to  gaze  at  the  youngster  through  his 
spectacles.  Marshall,  the  old  negro  who 
had  opened  the  door  at  the  boy's  knock,  also 
looked  down  at  him,  and  indignantly  said: 

"G'long  back  on  de  gall'ry  an'  drip  yo'se'f! 
Wat  Cynthy  gwine  say  tomorrow  w'en  she 
see  dat  flo'  mess'  up  dat  away?" 

"Come  to  the  fire  and  sit  down,"  said  Doc- 
tor John-Luis. 

Doctor  John- Luis  was  a  bachelor.  He  was 
small  and  thin;  he  wore  snuff-colored  clothes 

251 


252  Mamouche. 

that  were  a  little  too  large  for  him,  and  spec- 
tacles. Time  had  not  deprived  him  of  an 
abundant  crop  of  hair  that  had  once  been  red, 
and  was  not  now  more  than  half-bleached. 

The  boy  looked  irresolutely  from  master  to 
man;  then  went  and  sat  down  beside  the  fire 
on  a  splint-bottom  chair.  He  sat  so  close  to 
the  blaze  that  had  he  been  an  apple  he  would 
have  roasted.  As  he  was  but  a  small  boy, 
clothed  in  wet  rags,  he  only  steamed. 

Marshall  grumbled  audibly,  and  Doctor 
John-Luis  continued  to  inspect  the  boy 
through  his  glasses. 

"Marsh,  bring  him  something  to  eat,"  he 
commanded,  tentatively. 

Marshall  hesitated,  and  challenged  the  child 
with  a  speculating  look. 

"Is  you  w'ite  o'  is  you  black?"  he  asked. 
"Dat  w'at  I  wants  ter  know  'fo*  I  kiar'  vic- 
tuals to  yo  in  de  settin'-room." 

"I'm  w'ite,  me,"  the  boy  responded, 
promptly. 

"I  ain't  disputing  go  ahead.  All  right  fer 
dem  w'at  wants  ter  take  yo*  wud  fer  it."  Doc- 
tor John-Luis  coughed  behind  his  hand  and 
said  nothing. 


Mamouche.  253 

Marshall  brought  a  platter  of  cold  food  to 
the  boy,  who  rested  the  dish  upon  his  knees 
and  ate  from  it  with  keen  appetite. 

"Where  do  you  come  from?"  asked  Doctor 
John-Luis,  when  his  caller  stopped  for  breath. 
Mamouche  turned  a  pair  of  big,  soft,  dark 
eyes  upon  his  questioner. 

"I  come  frum  Cloutierville  this  mo'nin'.  I 
been  try  to  git  to  the  twenty-fo'-mile  ferry 
w'en  de  rain  ketch  me." 

"What  were  you  going  to  do  at  the  twenty- 
four-mile  ferry?" 

The  boy  gazed  absently  into  the  fire.  "I 
don'  know  w'at  I  was  goin'  to  do  yonda  to  the 
twenty-fo'-mile  ferry,"  he  said. 

"Then  you  must  be  a  tramp,  to  be  wan- 
dering aimlessly  about  the  country  in  that 
way!"  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

"No;  I  don'  b'lieve  I'm  a  tramp,  me."  Ma- 
mouche was  wriggling  his  toes  with  enjoy- 
ment of  the  warmth  and  palatable  food. 

"Well,  what's  your  name?"  continued  Doc- 
tor John-Luis. 

"My  name  it's  Mamouche." 

"'Mamouche/      Fiddlesticks!      That's    no 


254  Mamouche. 

The  boy  looked  as  if  he  regretted  the  fact, 
while  not  being  able  to  help  it. 

"But  my  pa,  his  name  it  was  Mathurin  Pe- 
lote," he  offered  in  some  palliation. 

"Pelote!  Pelote!"  mused  Doctor  John- 
Luis.  "Any  kin  to  Theodule  Pelote  who  lived 
formerly  in  Avoyelles  parish?" 

"W'y,  yas!"  laughed  Mamouche.  "Theo- 
dule Pelote,  it  was  my  gran'pa." 

"Your  grandfather?  Well,  upon  my  word!" 
He  looked  again,  critically,  at  the  youngster's 
rags.  "Then  Stephanie  Galopin  must  have 
been  your  grandmother!" 

"Yas,"  responded  Mamouche,  complacent- 
ly; "that  who  was  my  gran'ma.  She  die  two 
year  ago  down  by  Alexandria." 

"Marsh,"  called  Doctor  John-Luis,  turning 
in  his  chair,  "bring  him  a  mug  of  milk  and 
another  piece  of  pie!" 

When  Mamouche  had  eaten  all  the  good 
things  that  were  set  before  him,  he  found  that 
one  side  of  him  was  quite  dry,  and  he  trans- 
ferred himself  over  to  the  other  corner  of  the 
fire  so  as  to  turn  to  the  blaze  the  side  which 
was  still  wet. 


Mamouche.  255 

The  action  seemed  to  amuse  Doctor  John- 
Luis,  whose  old  head  began  to  fill  with  rec- 
ollections. 

'That  reminds  me  of  Theodule,"  he 
laughed.  "Ah,  he  was  a  great  fellow,  your 
father,  Theodule!" 

"My  gran'pa,"  corrected  Mamouche. 

"Yes,  yes,  your  grandfather.  He  was  hand- 
some; I  tell  you,  he  was  good-looking.  And 
the  way  he  could  dance  and  play  the  fiddle 
and  sing!  Let  me  see,  how  did  that  song  go 
that  he  used  to  sing  when  we  went  out  sere- 
nading:   'A  ta — a  ta — ' 

*  A  ta  f  enetre 
Daignes  paraitre— tra  la  la  la!'  " 

Doctor  John-Luis's  voice,  even  in  his  youth, 
could  not  have  been  agreeable;  and  now  it 
bore  no  resemblance  to  any  sound  that  Ma- 
mouche had  ever  heard  issue  from  a  human 
throat.  The  boy  kicked  his  heels  and  rolled 
sideward  on  his  chair  with  enjoyment.  Doc- 
tor John-Luis  laughed  even  more  heartily, 
finished  the  stanza,  and  sang  another  one 
through. 

"That's  what  turned  the  girls'  heads,  I  tell 
you,  my  boy,"  said  he,  when  he  had  recovered 


256  Mamouche. 

his  breath;  "that  fiddling  and  dancing  and  tra 
la  la." 

During  the  next  hour  the  old  man  lived 
again  through  his  youth;  through  any  num- 
ber of  alluring  experiences  with  his  friend 
Theodule,  that  merry  fellow  who  had  never 
done  a  steady  week's  work  in  his  life;  and 
Stephanie,  the  pretty  Acadian  girl,  whom  he 
had  never  wholly  understood,  even  to  this 
day. 

It  was  quite  late  when  Doctor  John-Luis 
climbed  the  stairs  that  led  from  the  sitting- 
room  up  to  his  bedchamber.  As  he  went,  fol- 
lowed by  the  ever  attentive  Marshall,  he  was 
singing: 

"A  tafenetre 
Daignes  paraitre, " 

but  very  low,  so  as  not  to  awaken  Mamouche, 
whom  he  left  sleeping  upon  a  bed  that  Mar- 
shall at  his  order  had  prepared  for  the  boy 
beside  the  sitting-room  fire. 

At  a  very  early  hour  next  morning  Mar- 
shall appeared  at  his  master's  bedside  with  the 
accustomed  morning  coffee. 


Mamouche.  257 

"What  is  he  doing?"  asked  Doctor  John- 
Luis,  as  he  sugared  and  stirred  the  tiny  cup 
of  black  coffee. 

"Who  dat,  sah?" 

"Why,  the  boy,  Mamouche.  What  is  he 
doing?" 

"He  gone,  sah.    He  done  gone." 

"Gone!" 

"Yas,  sah.  He  roll  his  bed  up  in  de  corner; 
he  onlock  de  do';  he  gone.  But  de  silver  an* 
ev'thing  dah;  he  ain't  kiar'  nuttin'  off." 

"Marshall,"  snapped  Doctor  John-Luis,  ill- 
humoredly,  "there  are  times  when  you  don't 
seem  to  have  sense  and  penetration  enough  to 
talk  about!  I  think  I'll  take  another  nap" 
he  grumbled,  as  he  turned  his  back  upon  Mar- 
shall.   "Wake  me  at  seven." 

It  was  no  ordinary  thing  for  Doctor  John- 
Luis  to  be  in  a  bad  humor,  and  perhaps  it  is 
not  strictly  true  to  say  that  he  was  now.  He 
was  only  in  a  little  less  amiable  mood  than 
usual  when  he  pulled  on  his  high  rubber  boots 
and  went  splashing  out  in  the  wet  to  see  what 
his  people  were  doing. 

He  might  have  owned  a  large  plantation 
had  he  wished  to  own  one,  for  a  long  life  of 


258  Mamouche. 

persistent,  intelligent  work  had  left  him  with 
a  comfortable  fortune  in  his  old  age;  but  he 
preferred  the  farm  on  which  he  lived  content- 
edly and  raised  an  abundance  to  meet  his 
modest  wants. 

He  went  down  to  the  orchard,  where  a 
couple  of  men  were  busying  themselves  in 
setting  out  a  line  of  young  fruit-trees. 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  They  were  doing  it  all 
wrong;  the  line  was  not  straight;  the  holes 
were  not  deep.  It  was  strange  that  he  had  to 
come  down  there  and  discover  such  things 
with  his  old  eyes! 

He  poked  his  head  into  the  kitchen  to  com- 
plain to  Prudence  about  the  ducks  that  she 
had  not  seasoned  properly  the  day  before,  and 
to  hope  that  the  accident  would  never  occur 
again. 

He  tramped  over  to  where  a  carpenter  was 
working  on  a  gate;  securing  it— as  he  meant 
to  secure  all  the  gates  upon  his  place — with 
great  patent  clamps  and  ingenious  hinges,  in- 
tended to  baffle  utterly  the  designs  of  the  evil- 
disposed  persons  who  had  lately  been  tamper- 
ing with  them.  For  there  had  been  a  malic- 
ious   spirit    abroad,    who    played    tricks,     it 


Mamouche.  259 

seemed,  for  pure  wantonness  upon  the  farmers 
and  planters,  and  caused  them  infinite  annoy- 
ance. 

As  Dr.  John-Luis  contemplated  the  carpen- 
ter at  work,  and  remembered  how  his  gates 
had  recently  all  been  lifted  from  their  hinges 
one  night  and  left  lying  upon  the  ground,  the 
provoking  nature  of  the  offense  dawned  upon 
him  as  it  had  not  done  before.  He  turned 
swiftly,  prompted  by  a  sudden  determination, 
and  re-entered  the  house. 

Then  he  proceeded  to  write  out  in  immense 
black  characters  a  half-dozen  placards.  It 
was  an  offer  of  twenty-five  dollars'  reward  for 
the  capture  of  the  person  guilty  of  the  ma- 
licious offence  already  described.  These  pla- 
cards were  sent  abroad  with  the  same  eager 
haste  that  had  conceived  and  executed  them. 

After  a  day  or  two,  Doctor  John-Luis'  ill 
humor  had  resolved  itself  into  a  pensive  mel- 
ancholy. 

"Marsh,"  he  said,  "you  know,  after  all,  it's 
rather  dreary  to  be  living  alone  as  I  do,  with- 
out any  companion — of  my  own  color,  you 
understand." 


260  Mamouche. 

"I  knows  dat,  sah.  It  sho'  am  lonesome," 
replied  the  sympathetic  Marshall. 

"You  see,  Marsh,  I've  been  thinking  lately," 
and  Doctor  John-Luis  coughed,  for  he  dis- 
liked the  inaccuracy  of  that  "lately."  "I've 
been  thinking  that  this  property  and  wealth 
that  I've  worked  so  hard  to  accumulate,  are 
after  all  doing  no  permanent,  practical  good 
to  any  one.  Now,  if  I  could  find  some  well- 
disposed  boy  whom  I  might  train  to  work,  to 
study,  to  lead  a  decent,  honest  life — a  boy  of 
good  heart  who  would  care  for  me  in  my  old 
age;  for  I  am  still  comparatively — hem — 
not  old?  hey,  Marsh?" 

"Dey  ain't  one  in  de  pa'ish  hole  yo'  own 
like  you  does,  sah." 

"That's  it.  Now,  can  you  think  of  such  a 
boy?    Try  to  think. " 

Marshall  slowly  scratched  his  head  and 
looked  reflective. 

"If  you  can  think  of  such  a  boy,"  said  Doc- 
tor John-Luis,  "you  might  bring  him  here  to 
spend  an  evening  with  me,  you  know,  with- 
out hinting  at  my  intentions,  of  course.  In 
that 'way  I  could  sound  him;  study  him  up,  as 
it  were.    For  a  step  of  such  importance  is  not 


Mamouche.  261 

to  be  taken  without  due  consideration, 
Marsh." 

Well,  the  first  whom  Marshall  brought  was 
one  of  Baptiste  Choupic's  boys.  He  was  a 
very  timid  child,  and  sat  on  the  edge  of  his 
chair,  fearfully.  He  replied  in  jerky  mono- 
syllables when  Doctor  John-Luis  spoke  to 
him,  "Yas,  sah — no,  sah,"  as  the  case  might 
be;  with  a  little  nervous  bob  of  the  head. 

His  presence  made  the  doctor  quite  uncom- 
fortable. He  was  glad  to  be  rid  of  the  boy 
at  nine  o'clock,  when  he  sent  him  home  with 
some  oranges  and  a  few  sweetmeats. 

Then  Marshall  had  Theodore  over;  an  un- 
fortunate selection  that  evinced  little  judg- 
ment on  Marshall's  part.  Not  to  mince  mat- 
ters, the  boy  was  painfully  forward.  He  mon- 
opolized the  conversation;  asked  impertinent 
questions  and  handled  and  inspected  every- 
thing in  the  room.  Dr.  John-Luis  sent  him 
home  with  an  orange  and  not  a  single  sweet. 

Then  there  was  Hyppolite,  who  was  too 
ugly  to  be  thought  of;  and  Cami,  who  was 
heavy  and  stupid,  and  fell  asleep  in  his  chair 
with  his  mouth  wide  open.  And  so  it  went. 
If  Doctor  John-Luis  had  hoped  in  the  com- 


262  Mamouche. 

pany  of  any  of  these  boys  to  repeat  the  agree- 
able evening  he  had  passed  with  Mamouche, 
he  was  sadly  deceived. 

At  last  he  instructed  Marshall  to  discon- 
tinue the  search  of  that  ideal  companion  he 
had  dreamed  of.  He  was  resigned  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  his  days  without  one. 

Then,  one  day  when  it  was  raining  again, 
and  very  muddy  and  chill,  a  red-faced  man 
came  driving  up  to  Doctor  John-Luis'  door 
in  a  dilapidated  buggy.  He  lifted  a  boy  from 
the  vehicle,  whom  he  held  with  a  vise-like 
clutch,  and  whom  he  straightway  dragged 
into  the  astonished  presence  of  Doctor  John- 
Luis. 

"Here  he  is,  sir,"  shouted  the  red-faced 
man.    "We've  got  him  at  last!    Here  he  is." 

It  was  Mamouche,  covered  with  mud,  the 
picture  of  misery.  Doctor  John-Luis  stood 
with  his  back  to  the  fire.  He  was  startled, 
and  visibly  and  painfully  moved  at  the  sight 
of  the  boy. 

"Is  it  possible!"  he  exclaimed.  "Then  it 
was  you,  Mamouche,  who  did  this  mischiev- 
ous thing  to  me?  Lifting  my  gates  from 
their  hinges;  letting  the   chickens   in   among 


Mamouche.  263 

my  flowers  to  ruin  them;  and  the  hogs  and 
cattle  to  trample  and  uproot  my  vegetables!" 

"Ha!  ha!"  laughed  the  red-faced  man,  "that 
game's  played  out,  now;"  and  Doctor  John- 
Luis  looked  as  if  he  wanted  to  strike  him. 

Mamouche  seemed  unable  to  reply.  His 
lower  lip  was  quivering. 

"Yas,  it's  me!"  he  burst  out.  "It's  me  w'at 
take  yo'  gates  off  the  hinge.  It's  me  w'at  turn 
loose  Mr.  Morgin's  hoss,  w'en  Mr.  Morgin 
was  passing  veillee  wid  his  sweetheart.  It's 
me  w'at  take  down  Ma'ame  Angele's  fence, 
an'  lef  her  calf  loose  to  tramp  in  Mr.  Billy's 
cotton.  It's  me  w'at  play  like  a  ghos'  by  the 
graveyard  las'  Toussaint  to  scare  the  darkies 
passin'  in  the  road.     It's  me  w'at — " 

The  confession  had  burst  out  from  the  depth 
of  Mamouche's  heart  like  a  torrent,  and  there 
is  no  telling  when  it  would  have  stopped  if 
Doctor  John-Luis  had  not  enjoined  silence. 

"And  pray  tell  me,"  he  asked,  as  severely 
as  he  could,  "why  you  left  my  house  like  a 
criminal,  in  the  morning,  secretly?" 

The  tears  had  begun  to  course  down  Ma- 
mouche's brown  cheeks. 


264  Mamouche. 

"I  was  'shame*  of  myse'f,  that's  w'y.  If 
you  wouldn'  gave  me  no  suppa,  an'  no  bed, 
an'  no  fire,  I  don'  say.'  I  wouldn'  been  'shame' 
then." 

"Well,  sir,"  interrupted  the  red-faced  man, 
"you've  got  a  pretty  square  case  against  him, 
I  see.  Not  only  for  malicious  trespass,  but 
of  theft.  See  this  bolt?"  producing  a  piece 
of  iron  from  his  coat  pocket.  "That's  what 
gave  him  away." 

"I  en't  no  thief!"  blurted  Mamouche,  indig- 
nantly. "It's  one  piece  o'  iron  w'at  I  pick  up 
in  the  road." 

"Sir,"  said  Doctor  John-Luis  with  dignity, 
"I  can  understand  how  the  grandson  of  Theo- 
dule  Pelote  might  be  guilty  of  such  mischiev- 
ous pranks  as  this  boy  has  confessed  to.  But 
I  know  that  the  grandson  of  Stephanie  Galo- 
pin  could  not  be  a  thief." 

And  he  at  once  wrote  out  the  check  for 
twenty-five  dollars,  and  handed  it  to  the  red- 
faced  man  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers. 

It  seemed  very  good  to  Doctor  John-Luis 
to  have  the  boy  sitting  again  at  his  fireside; 
and  so  natural,  too.    He  seemed  to  be  the  in- 


Mamouche.  265 

carnation  of  unspoken  hopes;  the  realization 
of  vague  and  fitful  memories  of  the  past. 

When  Mamouche  kept  on  crying,  Doctor 
John- Luis  wiped  away  the  tears  with  his  own 
brown  silk  handkerchief. 

•'Mamouche,"  he  said,  "I  want  you  to  stay 
here;  to  live  here  with  me  always.  To  learn 
how  to  work;  to  learn  how  to  study;  to  grow 
up  to  be  an  honorable  man.  An  honorable 
man,  Mamouche,  for  I  want  you  for  my  own 
child." 

His  voice  was  pretty  low  and  husky  when 
he  said  that. 

"I  shall  not  take  the  key  from  the  door  to- 
night," he  continued.  "If  you  do  not  choose 
to  stay  and  be  all  this  that  I  say,  you  may 
open  the  door  and  walk  out.  I  shall  use  no 
force  to  keep  you." 

"What  is  he  doing,  Marsh?"  asked  Doctor 
John-Luis  the  following  morning,  when  he 
took  the  coffee  that  Marshall  had  brought  to 
him  in  bed. 

"Who  dat,  sah?" 

"Why,  the  boy  Mamouche,  of  course.  What 
is  he  doing?" 


266  Mamouche. 

Marshall  laughed. 

"He  kneelin'  down  dah  on  de  flo\  He 
keep  on  sayin',  'Hail,  Mary,  full  o'  grace,  de 
Lord  is  wid  dee.  Hail,  Mary,  full  o'  grace' — 
t'ree,  fo'  times,  sah.  I  tell  'im,  'Wat  you 
sayin'  yo'  prayer  dat  away,  boy?'  He  'low  dat 
w'at  his  gran'ma  larn  'im,  ter  keep  outen  mis- 
chief. Wen  de  devil  say,  'Take  dat  gate  often 
de  hinge;  do  dis;  do  dat,'  he  gwine  say  t'ree 
Hail  Mary,  an*  de  devil  gwine  tu'n  tail  an' 
run." 

"Yes,  yes,"  laughed  Doctor  John-Luis. 
"That's  Stephanie  all  over." 

"An'  I  tell  'im:  See  heah,  boy,  you  drap 
a  couple  o'  dem  Hail  Mary,  an'  quit  studyin' 
'bout  de  devil,  an*  sot  yo'se'f  down  ter  wuk. 
Dat  the  oniest  way  to  keep  outen  mischief." 

"What  business  is  it  of  yours  to  interfere?" 
broke  in  Doctor  John-Luis,  irritably.  "Let 
the  boy  do  as  his  grandmother  instructed 
him." 

"I  ain't  desputin',  sah,"  apologized  Mar- 
shall. 

"But  you  know,  Marsh,"  continued  the 
doctor,  recovering  his  usual  amiability.  "I 
think  we'll  be  able  to  do  something  with  the 


Mamouche.  267 

boy.    I'm  pretty  sure  of  it.    For,  you  see,  he_ 
has  his  grandmother's  eyes;  and  his  grand-   I 
mother  was  a  very  intelligent  woman;  a  clever 
woman,  Marsh.     Her  one  great  mistake  was 
when  she  married  Theodule  Pelote." 


A  Sentimental  Soul 


A  Sentimental  Soul 


LACODIE  stayed  longer  than  was  his 
custom  in  Mamzelle  Fleurette's  little 
store  that  evening.  He  had  been 
tempted  by  the  vapid  utterances  of  a  conserva- 
tive bellhanger  to  loudly  voice  his  radical 
opinions  upon  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  hu- 
manity at  large  and  his  fellow-workingmen 
in  particular.  He  was  quite  in  a  tremble 
when  he  finally  laid  his  picayune  down  upon 
Mamzelle  Fleurette's  counter  and  helped  him- 
self to  PAbeille  from  the  top  of  the  diminished 
pile  of  newspapers  which  stood  there. 

He  was  small,  frail  and  hollow-chested,  but 
his  head  was  magnificent  with  its  generous 
adornment  of  waving  black  hair;  its  sunken 
eyes  that  glowed  darkly  and  steadily  and 
sometimes  flamed,  and  its  moustaches  which 
were  formidable. 

271 


272  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

"Eh  bien,  Mamzelle  Fleurette,  a  demain,  a 
demain!,,  and  he  waved  a  nervous  good-bye 
as  he  let  himself  quickly  and  noiselessly  out. 

However  violent  Lacodie  might  be  in  his 
manner  toward  conservatives,  he  was  always 
gentle,  courteous  and  low-voiced  with  Mam- 
zelle Fleurette,  who  was  much  older  than  he, 
much  taller;  who  held  no  opinions,  and  whom 
he  pitied,  and  even  in  a  manner  revered. 
Mamzelle  Fleurette  at  once  dismissed  the  bell- 
hanger,  with  whom,  on  general  principles,  she 
had  no  sympathy. 

She  wanted  to  close  the  store,  for  she  was 
going  over  to  the  cathedral  to  confession. 
She  stayed  a  moment  in  the  doorway  watch- 
ing Lacodie  walk  down  the  opposite  side  of 
the  street.  His  step  was  something  between 
a  spring  and  a  jerk,  which  to  her  partial  eyes 
seemed  the  perfection  of  motion.  She  watched 
him  until  he  entered  his  own  small  low  door- 
way, over  which  hung  a  huge  wooden  key 
painted  red,  the  emblem  of  his  trade. 

For  many  months  now,  Lacodie  had  been 
coming  daily  to  Mamzelle  Fleurette's  little  no- 
tion store  to  buy  the  morning  paper,  which 
he  only  bought  and  read,  however,  in  the 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  273 

afternoon.  Once  he  had  crossed  over  with 
his  box  of  keys  and  tools  to  open  a  cupboard, 
which  would  unlock  for  no  inducements  of 
its  owner.  He  would  not  suffer  her  to  pay 
him  for  the  few  moments'  work;  it  was  noth- 
ing, he  assured  her;  it  was  a  pleasure;  he 
would  not  dream  of  accepting  payment  for  so 
trifling  a  service  from  a  camarade  and  fellow- 
worker.  But  she  need  not  fear  that  he  would 
lose  by  it,  he  told  her  with  a  laugh;  he  would 
only  charge  an  extra  quarter  to  the  rich  law- 
yer around  the  corner,  or  to  the  top-lofty 
druggist  down  the  street  when  these  might 
happen  to  need  his  services,  as  they  sometimes 
did.  This  was  an  alternative  which  seemed 
far  from  right  and  honest  to  Mamzelle  Fleu- 
r  ette.  Bnt_jh^_^eld_a _vague  ^understanding 
thatjn^n_wej^j^kejiejc^in  ..many-  ways^than 
wpjn£nj.j&atuyuag^^ 

with  them,  like  their  sex,  and  inseparable 
frojnJtL-* 

Having  watched  Lacodie  until  he  disap- 
peared within  his  shop,  she  retired  to  her 
room,  back  of  the  store,  and  began  her  prepa- 
rations to  go  out.  She  brushed  carefully  the 
black  alpaca  skirt,  which  hung  in  long  nun- 


274  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

like  folds  around  her  spare  figure.  She 
smoothed  down  the  brown,  ill-fitting  basque, 
and  readjusted  the  old-fashioned,  rusty  black 
lace  collar  which  she  always  wore.  Her  sleek 
hair  was  painfully  and  suspiciously  black.  She 
powdered  her  face  abundantly  with  poudre  de 
riz  before  starting  out,  and  pinned  a  dotted 
black  lace  veil  over  her  straw  bonnet.  There 
was  little  force  or  character  or  anything  in 
her  withered  face,  except  a  pathetic  desire  and 
appeal  to  be  permitted  to  exist. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  did  not  walk  down 
Chartres  street  with  her  usual  composed  tread; 
she  seemed  preoccupied  and  agitated.  When 
she  passed  the  locksmith's  shop  over  the  way 
and  heard  his  voice  within,  she  grew  trem- 
ulously self-conscious,  fingering  her  veil, 
swishing  the  black  alpaca  and  waving  her 
prayer  book  about  with  meaningless  intention. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  was  in  great  trouble; 
trouble  which  was  so  bitter,  so  sweet,  so  be- 
wildering, so  terrifying!  It  had  come  so 
stealthily  upon  her  she  had  never  suspected 
what  it  might  be.  She  thought  the  world  was 
growing  brighter  and  more  beautiful;  she 
thought  the  flowers  had  redoubled  their  sweet- 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  275 

ness  and  the  birds  their  song,  and  that  the 
voices  of  her  fellow-creatures  had  grown 
kinder  and  their  faces  truer. 

The  day  before  Lacodie  had  not  come  to 
her  for  his  paper.  At  six  o'clock  he  was  not 
there,  at  seven  he  was  not  there,  nor  at  eight, 
and  then  she  knew  he  would  not  come.  At 
first,  when  it  was  only  a  little  past  the  time  of 
his  coming,  she  had  sat  strangely  disturbed 
and  distressed  in  the  rear  of  the  store,  with  her 
back  to  the  door.  When  the  door  opened  she 
turned  with  fluttering  expectancy.  It  was 
only  an  unhappy-looking  child,  who  wanted 
to  buy  some  foolscap,  a  pencil  and  an  eraser. 
The  next  to  come  in  was  an  old  mulatresse, 
who  was  bringing  her  prayer  beads  for  Mam- 
zelle  Fleurette  to  mend.  The  next  was  a 
gentleman,  to  buy  the  Courier  des  Etats  Unis, 
and  then  a  young  girl,  who  wanted  a  holy  pic- 
ture for  her  favorite  nun  at  the  Ursulines;  it 
was  everybody  but  Lacodie. 

A  temptation  assailed  Mamzelle  Fleurette, 
almost  fierce  in  its  intensity,  to  carry  the  pa- 
per over  to  his  shop  herself,  when  he  was  not 
there  at  seven.  She  conquered  it  from  sheer 
moral  inability  to  do  anything  so  daring,  so 


276  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

unprecedented.  But  to-day,  when  he  had 
come  back  and  had  stayed  so  long  discours- 
ing with  the  bellhanger,  a  contentment,  a  rap- 
ture, had  settled  upon  her  being  which  she 
could  no  longer  ignore  or  mistake.  Shejoved 
Lacodie.  That  fact  was  plain  to  heFnow,  as 
plain  as  the  conviction  that  every  reason  ex- 
isted why  she  should  not  love  him.  He  was 
the  husband  of  another  woman.  To  love  the 
husband  of  another  woman"  was  one  of  the 
deepest  sins  which  Mamzelle  Fleurette  knew; 
murder  was  perhaps  blacker,  but  she  was  not 
sure.  She  was  going  to  confession  now.  She 
was  going  to  tell  her  sin  to  Almighty  God 
and  Father  Fochelle,  and  ask  their  forgive- 
ness. She  was  going  to  pray  and  beg  the 
saints  and  the  Holy  Virgin  to  remove  the 
sweet  and  subtle  poison  from  her  soul.  It 
was  surely  a  poison,  and  a  deadly  one,  which 
could  make  her  feel  that  her  youth  had  come 
back  and  taken  her  by  the  hand. 

II. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  had  been  confessing  for 
many  years  to  old  Father  Fochelle.  In  his 
secret  heart  he  often  thought  it  a  waste  of 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  277 

his  time  and  her  own  that  she  should  come 
with  her  little  babblings,  her  little  nothings  to 
him,  calling  them  sins.  He  felt  that  a  wave 
of  the  hand  might  brush  them  away,  and  that 
it  in  a  manner  compromised  the  dignity  of 
holy  absolution  to  pronounce  the  act  over  so 
innocent  a  soul. 

To-day  she  had  whispered  all  her  short- 
comings into  his  ear  through  the  grating  of 
the  confessional;  he  knew  them  so  well!  There 
were  many  other  penitents  waiting  to  be 
heard,  and  he  was  about  to  dismiss  her  with 
a  hasty  blessing  when  she  arrested  him,  and  in 
hesitating,  faltering  accents  told  him  of  her 
love  for  the  locksmith,  the  husband  of  another 
woman.  A  slap  in  the  face  would  not  have 
startled  Father  Fochelle  more  forcibly  or 
more  painfully.  What  soul  was  there  on 
earth,  he  wondered,  so  hedged  about  with  in- 
nocence as  to  be  secure  from  the  machinations 
of  Satan!  Oh,  the  thunder  of  indignation  that 
descended  upon  Mamzelle  Fleurette's  head! 
She  bowed  down,  beaten  to  earth  beneath  it. 
Then  came  questions,  one,  two,  three,  in  quick 
succession,  that  made  Mamzelle  Fleurette 
gasp  and  clutch  blindly  before  her.     Why  was 


278  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

she  not  a  shadow,  a  vapor,  that  she  might  dis- 
solve from  before  those  angry,  penetrating 
eyes;  or  a  small  insect,  to  creep  into  some 
crevice  and  there  hide  herself  forevermore? 

"Oh,  father!  no,  no,  no!"  she  faltered,  "he 
knows  nothing,  nothing.  I  would  die  a  hun- 
dred deaths  before  he  should  know,  before 
anyone  should  know,  besides  yourself  and  the 
good  God  of  whom  I  implore  pardon." 

Father  Fochelle  breathed  more  freely,  and 
mopped  his  face  with  a  flaming  bandana, 
which  he  took  from  the  ample  pocket  of  his 
soutane.  But  he  scolded  Mamzelle  Fleurette 
roundly,  unpityingly;  for  being  a  fool,  for  be- 
ing a  sentimentalist^  She  had  not  committed 
mortal  sin,  but  the  occasion  was  rijge_jor  Jtj 
and  Took  to  it  she  must  that  she  keep  Satan 
at  bay  with  watchfulness  and  prayer.  "Go, 
my  child,  and  sin  no  more." 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  made  a  detour  in  re- 
gaining her  home  by  which  she  would  not 
have  to  pass  the  locksmith's  shop.  She  did 
not  even  look  in  that  direction  when  she  let 
herself  in  at  the  glass  door  of  her  store. 

Some  time  before,  when  she  was  yet  igno- 
rant of  the  motive  which  prompted  the  act, 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  279 

she  had  cut  from  a  newspaper  a  likeness  of 
Lacodie,  who  had  served  as  foreman  of  the 
jury  during  a  prominent  murder  trial.  The 
likeness  happened  to  be  good,  and  quite  did 
justice  to  the  locksmith's  fine  physiognomy 
with  its  leonine  hirsute  adornment.  This  pic- 
ture Mamzelle  Fleurette  had  kept  hitherto  be- 
tween the  pages  of  her  prayer  book.  Here, 
twice  a  day,  it  looked  out  at  her;  as  she  turned 
the  leaves  of  the  holy  mass  in  the  morning, 
and  when  she  read  her  evening  devotions  be- 
fore her  own  little  home  altar,  over  which 
hung  a  crucifix  and  a  picture  of  the  Em- 
press Eugenie. 

Her  first  action  upon  entering  her  room, 
even  before  she  unpinned  the  dotted  veil,  was 
to  take  Lacodie's  picture  from  her  prayer  book 
and  place  it  at  random  between  the  leaves  of  a 
'  'Dictionnaire  de  la  Langue  Francaise,"  which 
was  the  undermost  of  a  pile  of  old  books  that 
stood  on  the  corner  of  the  mantelpiece.  Be- 
tween night  and  morning,  when  she  would 
approach  the  holy  sacrament,  Mamzelle  Fleu- 
rette felt  it  to  be  her  duty  to  thrust  Lacodie 
from  her  thoughts  by  every  means  and  device 
known  to  her. 


280  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

The  following  day  was  Sunday,  when  there 
was  no  occasion  or  opportunity  for  her  to  see 
the  locksmith.  Moreover,  after  partaking  of 
holy  communion,  Mamzelle  Fleurette  felt  in- 
vigorated; she  was  conscious  of  a  new,  if 
fictitious,  strength  to  combat  Satan  and  his 
wiles. 

On  Monday,  as  the  hour  approached  for  La- 
codie  to  appear,  Mamzelle  Fleurette  became 
harassed  by  indecision.  Should  she  call  in 
the  young  girl,  the  neighbor  who  relieved  her 
on  occasion,  and  deliver  the  store  into  the 
girl's  hands  for  an  hour  or  so?  This  might 
be  well  enough  for  once  in  a  while,  but  she 
could  not  conveniently  resort  to  this  subter- 
fuge daily.  After  all,  she  had  her  living  to 
make,  which  consideration  was  paramount. 
She  finally  decided  that  she  would  retire  to 
her  little  back  room  and  when  she  heard  the 
store  door  open  she  would  call  out: 

"Is  it  you,  Monsieur  Lacodie?  I  am  very 
busy;  please  take  your  paper  and  leave  your 
cinq  sous  on  the  counter."  If  it  happened  not 
to  be  Lacodie  she  would  come  forward  and 
serve  the  customer  in  person.  She  did  not, 
of  course,  expect  to  carry  out  this  perform- 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  281 

ance  each  day;  a  fresh  device  would  no  doubt 
suggest  itself  for  tomorrow.  Mamzelle  Fleu- 
rette  proceeded  to  carry  out  her  programme 
to  the  letter. 

"Is  it  you,  Monsieur  Lacodie?"  she  called 
out  from  the  little  back  room,  when  the  front 
door  opened.  "I  am  very  busy;  please  take 
your  paper — " 

"Ce  n'est  pas  Lacodie,  Mamzelle  Fleurette. 
C'est  moi,  Augustine." 

It  was  Lacodie' s  wife,  a  fat,  comely  young 
woman,  wearing  a  blue  veil  thrown  carelessly 
over  her  kinky  black  hair,  and  carrying  some 
grocery  parcels  clasped  close  in  her  arms. 
Mamzelle  Fleurette  emerged  from  the  back 
room,  a  prey  to  the  most  contradictory  emo- 
tions ;  relief  and  disappointment  struggling  for 
the  mastery  with  her. 

"No  Lacodie  to-day,  Mamzelle  Fleurette," 
Augustine  announced  with  a  certain  robust 
ill-humor;  "he  is  there  at  home  shaking  with 
a  chill  till  the  very  window  panes  rattle.  He 
had  one  last  Friday"  (the  day  he  had  not  come 
for  his  paper)  "and  now  another  and  a  worse 
one  to-day.     God    knows,  if    it    keeps    on — ■ 


282  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

well,  let  me  have  the  paper;  he  will  want  to 
read  it  to-night  when  his  chill  is  past." 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  handed  the  paper  to  Au- 
gustine, feeling  like  an  old  woman  in  a  dream 
handing  a  newspaper  to  a  young  woman  in  a 
dream.  She  had  never  thought  of  Lacodie 
having  chills  or  being  ill.  It  seemed  very 
strange.  And  Augustine  was  no  sooner  gone 
than  all  the  ague  remedies  she  had  ever  heard 
of  came  crowding  to  Mamzelle  Fleurette's 
mind;  an  egg  in  black  coffee — or  was  it  a 
lemon  in  black  coffee?  or  an  egg  in  vinegar? 
She  rushed  to  the  door  to  call  Augustine  back, 
but  the  young  woman  was  already  far  down 
the  street. 

III. 

Augustine  did  not  come  the  next  day,  nor 
the  next,  for  the  paper.  The  unhappy  looking 
child  who  had  returned  for  more  foolscap,  in- 
formed Mamzelle  Fleurette  that  he  had  heard 
his  mother  say  that  Monsieur  Lacodie  was 
very  sick,  and  the  bellhanger  had  sat  up  all 
night  with  him.  The  following  day  Mamzelle 
Fleurette  saw  Choppin's  coupe  pass  clattering 
over  the  cobblestones  and  stop  before  the  lock- 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  283 

smith's  door.  She  knew  that  with  her  class 
it  was  only  in  a  case  of  extremity  that  the 
famous  and  expensive  physician  was  sum- 
moned. For  the  first  time  she  thought  of 
death.  She  prayed  all  day,  silently,  to  her- 
self, even  while  waiting  upon  customers. 

In  the  evening  she  took  an  Abeille  from  the 
top  of  the  pile  on  the  counter,  and  throwing 
a  light  shawl  over  her  head,  started  with  the 
paper  over  to  the  locksmith's  shop.  She  did 
not  know  if  she  were  committing  a  sin  in  so 
doing.  She  would  ask  Father  Fochelle  on 
Saturday,  when  she  went  to  confession.  She 
did  not  think  it  could  be  a  sin;  she  would 
have  called  long  before  'on  any  other  sick 
neighbor,  and  she  intuitively  felt  that  in  this 
distinction  might  lie  the  possibility  of  sin. 

The  shop  was  deserted  except  for  the  pres- 
ence of  Lacodie's  little  boy  of  five,  who  sat 
upon  the  floor  playing  with  the  tools  and  con- 
trivances which  all  his  days  he  had  coveted, 
and  which  all  his  days  had  been  denied  to  him. 
Mamzelle  Fleurette  mounted  the  narrow  stair- 
way in  the  rear  of  the  shop  which  led  to  an 
upper  landing  and  then  into  the  room  of  the 
married  couple.     She  stood  a  while  hesitating 


284  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

upon  this  landing  before  venturing  to  knock 
softly  upon  the  partly  open  door  through 
which  she  could  hear  their  voices. 

"I  thought,"  she  remarked  apologetically  to 
Augustine,  "that  perhaps  Monsieur  Lacodie 
might  like  to  look  at  the  paper  and  you  had 
no  time  to  come  for  it,  so  I  brought  it  my- 
self." 

"Come  in,  come  in,  Mamzelle  Fleurette. 
It's  Mamzelle  Fleurette  who  comes  to  inquire 
about  you,  Lacodie,"  Augustine  called  out 
loudly  to  her  husband,  whose  half  conscious- 
ness she  somehow  confounded  with  deafness. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  drew  mincingly  for* 
ward,  clasping  her  thin  hands  together  at  the 
waist  line,  and  she  peeped  timorously  at  La- 
codie lying  lost  amid  the  bedclothes.  His 
black  mane  was  tossed  wildly  over  the  pillow 
and  lent  a  fictitious  pallor  to  the  yellow  wax- 
iness  of  his  drawn  features.  An  approaching 
chill  was  sending  incipient  shudders  through 
his  frame,  and  making  his  teeth  claque.  But 
he  still  turned  his  head  courteously  in  Mam- 
zelle Fleurette's  direction. 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  285 

"Bien  bon  de  votre  part,  Mamzelle  Fleu- 
rette — mais  c'est  fini.  J'suis  flambe,  flambe, 
flambe !" 

Oh,  the  pain  of  it!  to  hear  him  in  such  ex- 
tremity thanking  her  for  her  visit,  assuring 
her  in  the  same  breath  that  all  was  over  with 
him.  She  wondered  how  Augustine  could 
hear  it  so  composedly.  She  whisperingly  in- 
quired if  a  priest  had  been  summoned. 

"Inutile;  il  n'en  veut  pas,"  was  Augustine's 
reply.  So  he  would  have  no  priest  at  his  bed- 
side, and  here  was  a  new  weight  of  bitterness 
for  Mamzelle  Fleurette  to  carry  all  her  days. 

She  flitted  back  to  her  store  through  the 
darkness,  herself  like  a  slim  shadow.  The 
November  evening  was  chill  and  misty.  A 
dull  aureole  shot  out  from  the  feeble  gas  jet 
at  the  corner,  only  faintly  and  for  an  instant 
illumining  her  figure  as  it  glided  rapidly  and 
noiselessly  along  the  banquette.  Mamzelle 
Fleurette  slept  little  and  prayed  much  that 
night.  Saturday  morning  Lacodie  died.  On 
Sunday  he  was  buried  and  Mamzelle  Fleurette 
did  not  go  to  the  funeral,  because  Father  Fo- 
chelle  told  her  plainly  she  had  no  business 
there. 


286  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

It  seemed  inexpressibly  hard  to  Mamzelle 
Fleurette  that  she  was  not  permitted  to  hold 
Lacodie  in  tender  remembrance  now  that  he 
was  dead.  But  Father  Fochelle,  with  his  prac- 
tical insight,  made  no  compromise  with  senti- 
mentality; and  she  did  not  question  his  au- 
thority, or  his  ability  to  master  the  subtleties 
of  a  situation  utterly  beyond  reach  of  her  own 
powers. 

It  was  no  longer  a  pleasure  for  Mamzelle 
Fleurette  to  go  to  confession  as  it  had  form- 
erly been.  Her  heart  went  on  loving  Lacodie 
and  her  soul  went  on  struggling;  for  she  made 
this  delicate  and  puzzling  distinction  between 
heart  and  soul,  and  pictured  the  two  as  set 
in  a  very  death  struggle  against  each  other. 

"I  cannot  help  it,  father.  I  try,  but  I  can- 
not help  it.  To  love  him  is  like  breathing; 
I  do  not  know  how  to  help  it.  I  pray,  and 
pray,  and  it  does  no  good,  for  half  of  my  pray- 
ers are  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  It  surely 
cannot  be  a  sin,  to  pray  for  the  repose  of  his 
soul?" 

Father  Fochelle  was  heartily  sick  and  tired 
of  Mamzelle  Fleurette  and  her  stupidities. 
Oftentimes  he  was  tempted  to  drive  her  from 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  287 

the  confessional,  and  forbid  her  return  until 
she  should  have  regained  a  rational  state  of 
mind.  But  he  could  not  withhold  absolution 
from  a  penitent  who,  week  after  week,  ac- 
knowledged her  shortcoming  and  strove  with 
all  her  faculties  to  overcome  it  and  atone  for  it. 

IV. 

Augustine  had  sold  out  the  locksmith's  shop 
and  the  business,  and  had  removed  further 
down  the  street  over  a  bakery.  Out  of  her 
window  she  had  hung  a  sign,  "Blanchisseuse 
de  Fin."  Often,  in  passing  by,  Mamzelle 
Fleurette  would  catch  a  glimpse  of  Augustine 
up  at  the  window,  plying  the  irons;  her  sleeves 
rolled  to  the  elbows,  baring  her  round,  white 
arms,  and  the  little  black  curls  all  moist  and 
tangled  about  her  face.  It  was  early  spring 
then,  and  there  was  a  languor  in  the  air;  an 
odor  of  jasmine  in  every  passing  breeze;  the 
sky  was  blue,  unfathomable,  and  fleecy  white; 
and  people  along  the  narrow  street  laughed, 
and  sang,  and  called  to  one  another  from  win- 
dows and  doorways.  Augustine  had  set  a  pot 
of  rose-geranium  on  her  window  sill  and  hung 
out  a  bird  cage. 


288  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

Once,  Mamzelle  Fleurette  in  passing  on  her 
way  to  confession  heard  her  singing  roulades, 
vying  with  the  bird  in  the  cage.  Another 
time  she  saw  the  young  woman  leaning  with 
half  her  body  from  the  window,  exchanging 
pleasantries  with  the  baker  standing  beneath 
on  the  banquette. 

Still,  a  little  later,  Mamzelle  Fleurette  be- 
gan to  notice  a  handsome  young  fellow  often 
passing  the  store.  He  was  jaunty  and  de- 
bonnaire  and  wore  a  rich  watchchain,  and 
looked  prosperous.  She  knew  him  quite  well 
as  a  fine  young  Gascon,  who  kept  a  stall  in  the 
French  Market,  and  from  whom  she  had  often 
bought  charcuterie.  The  neighbors  told  her 
the  young  Gascon  was  paying  his  addresses  to 
Mme.  Lacodie.  Mamzelle  Fleurette  shud- 
dered. She  wondered  if  Lacodie  knew!  The 
whole  situation  seemed  suddenly  to  shift  its 
base,  causing  Mamzelle  Fleurette  to  stagger. 
What  ground  would  her  poor  heart  and  soul 
have  to  do  battle  upon  now? 

She  had  not  yet  had  time  to  adjust  her  con- 
science to  the  altered  conditions  when  one 
Saturday  afternoon,  as  she  was  about  to  start 
out    to    confession,  she    noticed    an  unusual 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  289 

movement  down  the  street.  The  bellhanger, 
who  happened  to  be  presenting  himself  in  the 
character  of  a  customer,  informed  her  that  it 
was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  Mme.  Lacodie 
returning  from  her  wedding  with  the  Gascon. 
He  was  black  and  bitter  with  indignation,  and 
thought  she  might  at  least  have  waited  for  the 
year  to  be  out.  But  the  charivari  was  al- 
ready on  foot;  and  Mamzelle  need  not  feel 
alarmed  if,  in  the  night,  she  heard  sounds  and 
clamor  to  rouse  the  dead  as  far  away  as  Met- 
airie  ridge. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  sank  down  in  a  chair, 
trembling  in  all  her  members.  She  faintly 
begged  the  bell  hanger  to  pour  her  a  glass  of 
water  from  the  stone  pitcher  behind  the 
counter.  She  fanned  herself  and  loosened  her 
bonnet  strings.  She  sent  the  bell  hanger 
away. 

She  nervously  pulled  off  her  rusty  black 
kid  gloves,  and  ten  times  more  nervously  drew 
them  on  again.  To  a  little  customer,  who 
came  in  for  chewing  gum,  she  handed  a  paper 
of  pins. 

There  was  a  great,  a  terrible  upheaval  tak- 
ing place  in  Mamzelle  Fleurette's  soul.     She 


290  A  Sentimental  Soul. 

was  preparing  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to 
take  her  conscience  into  her  own  keeping. 

When  she  felt  herself  sufficiently  composed 
to  appear  decently  upon  the  street,  she  started 
out  to  confession.  She  did  not  go  to  Father 
Fochelle.  She  did  not  even  go  to  the  Cathe- 
dral; but  to  a  church  which  was  much  farther 
away,  and  to  reach  which  she  had  to  spend  a 
picayune  for  car  fare. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  confessed  herself  to  a 
priest  who  was  utterly  new  and  strange  to  her. 
She  told  him  all  her  little  venial  sins,  which 
she  had  much  difficulty  in  bringing  to  a  num- 
ber of  any  dignity  and  importance  whatever. 
Not  once  did  she  mention  her  love  for  La- 
codie,  the  dead  husband  of  another  woman. 

Mamzelle  Fleurette  did  not  ride  back  to  her 
home;  she  walked.  The  sensation  of  walking 
on  air  was  altogether  delicious;  she  had  never 
experienced  it  before.  A  long  time  she  stood 
contemplative  before  a  shop  window  in  which 
were  displayed  wreaths,  mottoes,  emblems,  de- 
signed for  the  embellishment  of  tombstones. 
What  a  sweet  comfort  it  would  be,  she  re- 
flected, on  the  1st  of  November  to  carry  some 
such  delicate  offering  to  Lacodie's  last  resting 


A  Sentimental  Soul.  291 

place.  Might  not  the  sole  care  of  his  tomb 
devolve  upon  her,  after  all!  The  possibility 
thrilled  her  and  moved  her  to  the  heart.  What 
thought  would  the  merry  Augustine  and  her 
lover-husband  have  for  the  dead  lying  in 
cemeteries ! 

When  Mamzelle  Fleurette  reached  home 
she  went  through  the  store  directly  into  her 
little  back  room.  The  first  thing  which  she 
did,  even  before  unpinning  the  dotted  lace 
veil,  was  to  take  the  "Dictionnaire  de  La 
Langue  Francaise"  from  beneath  the  pile  of 
old  books  on  the  mantelpiece.  It  was  not 
easy  to  find  Lacodie's  picture  hidden  some- 
where in  its  depths.  But  the  search  afforded 
her  almost  a  sensuous  pleasure;  turning  the 
leaves  slowly  back  and  forth. 

When  she  had  secured  the  likeness  she  went 
into  the  store  and  from  her  showcase  selected 
a  picture  frame — the  very  handsomest  there; 
one  of  those  which  sold  for  thirty-five  cents. 

Into  the  frame  Mamzelle  Fleurette  neatly 
and  deftly  pasted  Lacodie's  picture.  Then  she 
re-entered  her  room  and  deliberately  hung  it 
upon  the  wall — between  the  crucifix  and  the 
portrait  of  Empress  Eugenie — and  she  did  not  > 
care  if  the  Gascon's  wife  ever  saw  it  or  not.  . 


Dead  Men's  Shoes 


Dead  Men's  Shoes 

* 

IT  never  occurred  to  any  person  to  wonder 
what  would  befall  Gilma  now  that  "le 
vieux  Gamiche"  was  dead.  After  the 
burial  people  went  their  several  ways,  some 
to  talk  over  the  old  man  and  his  eccentricities, 
others  to  forget  him  before  nightfall,  and 
others  to  wonder  what  would  become  of 
his  very  nice  property,  the  hundred-acre  farm 
on  which  he  had  lived  for  thirty  years,  and 
on  which  he  had  just  died  at  the  age  of  sev- 
enty. 

If  Gilma  had  been  a  child,  more  than  one 
motherly  heart  would  have  gone  out  to  him. 
This  one  and  that  one  would  have  bethought 
them  of  carrying  him  home  with  them;  to 
concern  themselves  with  his  present  comfort, 
if  not  his  future  welfare.  But  Gilma  was  not 
a  child.  He  was  a  strapping  fellow  of  nine- 
teen, measuring  six  feet  in  his  stockings,  and 

295 


296  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

as  strong  as  any  healthy  youth  need  be.  For 
ten  years  he  had  lived  there  on  the  plantation 
with  Monsieur  Gamiche;  and  he  seemed  now 
to  have  been  the  only  one  with  tears  to  jshed 
at  the  old  man's  funeral. 

GamichVs  relatives  had  come  down  from 
Caddo  in  a  wagon  the  day  after  his  death,  and 
had  settled  themselves  in  his  house.  There 
was  Septime,  his  nephew,  a  cripple,  so  hor- 
ribly afflicted  that  it  was  distressing  to  look  at 
him.  And  there  was  Septime's  widowed  sis- 
ter, Ma'me  Broze,  with  her  two  little  girls. 
They  had  remained  at  the  house  during  the 
burial,  and  Gilma  found  them  still  there  upon 
his  return. 

The  young  man  went  at  once  to  his  room 
to  seek  a  moment's  repose.  He  had  lost 
much  sleep  during  Monsieur  Gamiche's  ill- 
ness; yet,  he  was  in  fact  more  worn  by  the 
mental  than  the  bodily  strain  of  the  past  week. 

But  when  he  entered  his  room,  there  was 
something  so  changed  in  its  aspect  that  it 
seemed  no  longer  to  belong  to  him.  In  place 
of  his  own  apparel  which  he  had  left  hanging 
on  the  row  of  pegs,  there  were  a  few  shabby 
little  garments  and  two  battered  straw  hats, 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  297 

the  property  of  the  Broze  children.  The  bu- 
reau drawers  were  empty,  there  was  not  a 
vestige  of  anything  belonging  to  him  remain- 
ing in  the  room.  His  first  impression  was 
that  Ma'me  Broze  had  been  changing  things 
around  and  had  assigned  him  to  some  other 
room. 

But  Gilma  understood  the  situation  better 
when  he  discovered  every  scrap  of  his  per- 
sonal effects  piled  up  on  a  bench  outside  the 
door,  on  the  back  or  "false"  gallery.  His 
boots  and  shoes  were  under  the  bench,  while 
coats,  trousers  and  underwear  were  heaped 
in  an  indiscriminate  mass  together. 

The  blood  mounted  to  his  swarthy  face  and 
made  him  look  for  the  moment  like  an  In- 
dian. He  had  never  thought  of  this.  He  did 
not  know  what  he  had  been  thinking  of;  but 
he  felt  that  he  ought  to  have  been  prepared 
for  anything;  and  it  was  his  own  fault  if  he 

was  not.     But  it  hurt.     This  spot  was  "home" 

1 

to  him  against  the  rest  of  the ■  worldj  Every 
tree,  ever}TsrTHaTwas  a  friend;  he  knew  every 
patch  in  the  fences;  and  the  little  old  house, 
gray  and  weather-beaten,  that  had  been  the 
shelter  of  his  youth,  he  loved  as  only   few 


298  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

can  love  inanimate  things.  A  great  enmity 
arose  in  him  against  Ma'me  Broze.  She  was 
walking  about  the  yard,  with  her  nose  in  the 
air,  and  a  shabby  black  dress  trailing  behind 
her.     She  held  the  little  girls  by  the  hand. 

Gilma  could  think  of  nothing  better  to  do 
than  to  mount  his  horse  and  ride  away — any- 
where. The  horse  was  a  spirited  animal  of 
great  value.  Monsieur  Gamiche  had  named 
him  "Jupiter"  on  account  of  his  proud  bear- 
ing, and  Gilma  had  nicknamed  him  "Jupe," 
which  seemed  to  him  more  endearing  and  ex- 
pressive of  his  great  attachment  to  the  fine 
creature.  With  the  bitter  resentment  of 
youth,  he  felt  that  "Jupe"  was  the  only  friend 
remaining  to  him  on  earth. 

He  had  thrust  a  few  pieces  of  clothing  in 
his  saddlebags  and  had  requested  Ma'me 
Broze,  with  assumed  indifference,  to  put  his 
remaining  effects  in  a  place  of  safety  until 
he  should  be  able  to  send  for  them. 

As  he  rode  around  by  the  front  of  the  house, 
Septime,  who  sat  on  the  gallery  all  doubled 
up  in  his  uncle  Gamiche's  big  chair,  called 
out: 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  299 

"He,  Gilma!  w'ere  you  boun'  fo'?" 

"I'm  goin'  away,"  replied  Gilma,  curtly, 
reining  his  horse. 

"That's  all  right;  but  I  reckon  you  might 
jus'  as  well  leave  that  hoss  behine  you." 

"The  hoss  is  mine,"  returned  Gilma,  as 
quickly  as  he  would  have  returned  a  blow. 

"We'll  see  'bout  that  li'le  later,  my  frien'.  I 
reckon  you  jus'  well  turn  'im  loose." 

Gilma  had  no  more  intention  of  giving  up 
his  horse  than  he  had  of  parting  with  his  own 
right  hand.  But  Monsieur  Gamiche  had 
taught  him  prudence  and  respect  for  the  law. 
He  did  not  wish  to  invite  disagreeable  com- 
plications. So,  controlling  his  temper  by  a 
supreme  effort,  Gilma  dismounted,  unsaddled 
the  horse  then  and  there,  and  led  it  back  to 
the  stable.  But  as  he  started  to  leave  the 
place  on  foot,  he  stopped  to  say  to  Septime: 

"You  know,  Mr.  Septime,  that  hoss  is  mine; 
I  can  collec'  a  hundred  affidavits  to  prove  it. 
I'll  bring  them  yere  in  a  few  days  with  a  state- 
ment f'om  a  lawyer;  an'  I'll  expec'  the  hoss  an' 
saddle  to  be  turned  over  to  me  in  good  condi- 
tion." 


3<x>  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

"That's  all  right.  We'll  see  'bout  that. 
.Won't  you  stay  fo'  dinna?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,  sah;  Ma'me  Broze  al- 
ready ask'  me."  And  Gilma  strode  away, 
down  the  beaten  footpath  that  led  across  the 
sloping  grassplot  toward  the  outer  road. 

A  definite  destination  and  a  settled  purpose 
ahead  of  him  seemed  to  have  revived  his  flag- 
ging energies  of  an  hour  before.  It  was  with 
no  trace  of  fatigue  that  he  stepped  out  bravely 
along  the  wagon-road  that  skirted  the  bayou. 

It  was  early  spring,  and  the  cotton  had  al- 
ready a  good  stand.  In  some  places  the  ne- 
groes were  hoeing.  Gilma  stopped  alongside 
the  rail  fence  and  called  to  an  old  negress 
who  was  plying  her  hoe  at  no  great  distance. 

"Hello,  Aunt  Hal'fax!  see  yere." 

She  turned,  and  immediately  quitted  her 
work  to  go  and  join  hini,  bringing  her  hoe 
with  her  across  her  shoulder.  She  was  large- 
boned  and  very  black.  She  was  dressed  in  the 
deshabille  of  the  field. 

"I  wish  you'd  come  up  to  yo'  cabin  with  me 
a  minute,  Aunt  Hally,"  he  said;  "I  want  to 
get  an  aff'davit  f'om  you." 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  301 

She  understood,  after  a  fashion,  what  an 
affidavit  was;  but  she  couldn't  see  the  good 
of  it. 

"I  ain't  got  no  aff'davis,  boy;  you  g'long  an* 
don'  pesta  me." 

"  'Twon't  take  you  any  time,  Aunt  Hal'fax. 
I  jus'  want  you  to  put  yo'  mark  to  a  state- 
ment I'm  goin'  to  write  to  the  effec'  that  my 
hoss,  Jupe,  is  my  own  prop'ty;  that  you  know 
it,  an'  willin'  to  swear  to  it." 

"Who  say  Jupe  don'  b'long  to  you?"  she 
questioned  cautiously,  leaning  on  her  hoe. 

He  motioned  toward  the  house. 

"Who?  Mista  Septime  and  them?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  reckon!"  she  exclaimed,  sympa- 
thetically. 

"That's  it,"  Gilma  went  on;  "an'  nex'  thing 
they'll  be  sayin'  yo'  ole  mule,  Policy,  don't 
b'long  to  you." 

She  started  violently. 

"Who  say  so?" 

"Nobody.  But  I  say,  nex'  thing,  that'  w'at 
they'll  be  sayin'." 


302  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

She  began  to  move  along  the  inside  of  the 
fence,  and  he  turned  to  keep  pace  with  her, 
walking  on  the  grassy  edge  of  the  road. 

"I'll  jus'  write  the  aff'davit,  Aunt  Hally,  an' 
all  you  got  to  do" — 

"You  know  des  well  as  me  dat  mule  mine. 
I  done  paid  ole  Mista  Gamiche  fo'  'im  in  good 
cotton;  dat  year  you  failed  outen  de  puckhorn 
tree;  an*  he  write  it  down  hisse'f  in  his  'count 
book." 

Gilma  did  not  linger  a  moment  after  obtain- 
ing the  desired  statement  from  Aunt  Halifax. 
With  the  first  of  those  "hundred  affidavits" 
that  he  hoped  to  secure,  safe  in  his  pocket,  he 
struck  out  across  the  country,  seeking  the 
shortest  way  to  town. 

Aunt  Halifax  stayed  in  the  cabin  door. 

"  'Relius,"  she  shouted  to  a  little  black  boy 
out  in  the  road,  "does  you  see  Pol'cy  any- 
whar?  G'long,  see  ef  he  'roun'  de  ben'. 
Wouldn*  s'prise  me  ef  he  broke  de  fence  an' 
got  in  yo'  pa's  corn  ag'in. "  And,  shading  her 
eyes  to  scan  the  surrounding  country,  she 
muttered,  uneasily:     "Whar  dat  mule?" 

The  following  morning  Gilma  entered  town 
and  proceeded  at  once  to  Lawyer  Paxton's 


Dead  Mens  Shoes.  303 

office.  He  had  had  no  difficulty  in  obtaining 
the  testimony  of  blacks  and  whites  regarding 
his  ownership  of  the  horse;  but  he  wanted  to 
make  his  claim  as  secure  as  possible  by  con- 
sulting the  lawyer  and  returning  to  the  plan- 
tation armed  with  unassailable  evidence. 

The  lawyer's  office  was  a  plain  little  room 
opening  upon  the  street.  Nobody  was  there, 
but  the  door  was  open;  and  Gilma  entered 
and  took  a  seat  at  the  bare  round  table  and 
waited.  It  was  not  long  before  the  lawyer 
came  in;  he  had  been  in  conversation  with 
some  one  across  the  street. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Pax'on,"  said  Gilma, 
rising. 

The  lawyer  knew  his  face  well  enough,  but 
could  not  place  him,  and  only  returned: 
"Good-morning,  sir — good-morning." 

"I  come  to  see  you,"  began  Gilma  plunging 
at  once  into  business,  and  drawing  his  handful 
of  nondescript  affidavits  from  his  pocket, 
"about  a  matter  of  prope'ty,  about  regaining 
possession  of  my  hoss  that  Mr.  Septime,  ole 
Mr.  Gamiche's  nephew,  is  holdin'  f'om  me 
yonder." 


304  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

The  lawyer  took  the  papers  and,  adjusting 
his  eye-glasses,  began  to  look  them  through. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said;  "I  see." 

"Since  Mr.  Gamiche  died  on  Tuesday" — 
began  Gilma. 

"Gamiche  died!"  repeated  Lawyer  Paxton, 
with  astonishment.  "Why,  you  don't  mean 
to  tell  me  that  vieux  Gamiche  is  dead?  Well, 
well.  I  hadn't  heard  of  it;  I  just  returned 
from  Shreveport  this  morning.  So  le  vieux 
Gamiche  is  dead,  is  he?  And  you  say  you 
want  to  get  possession  of  a  horse.  What  did 
you  say  your  name  was?"  drawing  a  pencil 
from  his  pocket. 

"Gilma  Germain  is  my  name,  suh." 

"Gilma  Germain,"  repeated  the  lawyer,  a 
little  meditatively,  scanning  his  visitor  closely. 
"Yes,  I  recall  your  face  now.  You  are  the 
young  fellow  whom  le  vieux  Gamiche  took  to 
live  with  him  some  ten  or  twelve  years  ago." 

"Ten  years  ago  las'  November,  suh." 

Lawyer  Paxton  arose  and  went  to  his  safe, 
from  which,  after  unlocking  it,  he  took  a 
legal-looking  document  that  he  proceeded  to 
read  carefully  through  to  himself. 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  305 

"Well,  Mr.  Germain,  I  reckon  there  won't 
be  any  trouble  about  regaining  possession  of 
the  horse,"  laughed  Lawyer  Paxton.  "I'm 
pleased  to  inform  you,  my  dear  sir,  that  our 
old  friend,  Gamiche,  has  made  you  sole  heir 
to  his  property;  that  is,  his  plantation,  in- 
cluding live  stock,  farming  implements,  ma- 
chinery, household  effects,  etc.  Quite  a 
pretty  piece  of  property,"  he  proclaimed  leis- 
urely, seating  himself  comfortably  for  a  long 
talk.  "And  I  may  add,  a  pretty  piece  of  luck, 
Mr.  Germain,  for  a  young  fellow  just  starting 
out  in  life;  nothing  but  to  step  into  a  dead 
man's  shoes!  A  great  chance — great  chance. 
Do  you  know,  sir,  the  moment  you  mentioned 
your  name,  it  came  back  to  me  like  a  flash, 
how  le  vieux  Gamiche  came  in  here  one  day, 
about  three  years  ago,  and  wanted  to  make 
his  will" —  And  the  loquacious  lawyer  went 
on  with  his  reminiscences  and  interesting  bits 
of  information,  of  which  Gilma  heard  scarcely 
a  word. 

He  was  stunned,  drunk,  with  the  sudden 
joy  of  possession;  the  thought  of  what  seemed 
to  him  great  wealth,  all  his  own — his  own! 
It  seemed  as  if  a  hundred  different  sensations 


306  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

were  holding  him  at  once,  and  as  if  a  thous- 
and intentions  crowded  upon  him.  He  felt 
like  another  being  who  would  have  to  re- 
adjust himself  to  the  new  conditions,  present- 
ing themselves  so  unexpectedly.  The  narrow 
confines  of  the  office  were  stifling,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  lawyer's  flow  of  talk  would 
never  stop.  Gilma  arose  abruptly,  and  with  a 
half-uttered  apology,  plunged  from  the  room 
into  the  outer  air. 

Two  days  later  Gilma  stopped  again  before 
Aunt  Halifax's  cabin,  on  his  way  back  to  the 
plantation.  He  was  walking  as  before,  hav- 
ing declined  to  avail  himself  of  any  one  of 
the  several  offers  of  a  mount  that  had  been 
tendered  him  in  town  and  on  the  way.  A 
rumor  of  Gilma's  great  good  fortune  had  pre- 
ceded him,  and  Aunt  Halifax  greeted  him 
with  an  almost  triumphal  shout  as  he  ap- 
proached. 

"God  knows  you  desarve  it,  Mista  Gilma! 
De  Lord  knows  you  does,  suh!  Come  in  an' 
res'  yo'se'f,  suh.  You,  'Reims!  git  out  dis 
heah  cabin;  crowdin'  up  dat  away!"  She 
wiped  off  the  best  chair  available  and  offered 
it  to  Gilma. 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  307 

He  was  glad  to  rest  himself  and  glad  to 
accept  Aunt  Halifax's  proffer  of  a  cup  of  cof- 
fee, which  she  was  in  the  act  of  dripping  be- 
fore a  small  fire.  He  sat  as  far  as  he  could 
from  the  fire,  for  the  day  was  warm;  he 
mopped  his  face,  and  fanned  himself  with  his 
broad-rimmed  hat. 

"I  des'  can't  he'p  laughin'  w'en  I  thinks 
'bout  it,"  said  the  old  woman,  fairly  shaking, 
as  she  leaned  over  the  hearth.  "I  wakes  up 
in  de  night,  even,  an'  has  to  laugh." 

"How's  that,  Aunt  Hal'fax,"  asked  Gilma, 
almost  tempted  to  laugh  himself  at  he  knew 
not  what. 

"G'long,  Mista  Gilma!  like  you  don'  know! 
It's  w'en  I  thinks  'bout  Septime  an'  them  like 
I  gwine  see  'em  in  dat  wagon  to-mor'  mo'nin', 
on'  dey  way  back  to  Caddo.     Oh,  lawsy!" 

"That  isn'  so  ver'  funny,  Aunt  Hal'fax," 
returned  Gilma,  feeling  himself  ill  at  ease  as 
he  accepted  the  cup  of  coffee  which  she  pre- 
sented to  him  with  much  ceremony  on  a  plat- 
ter,    "I  feel  pretty  sorry  for  Septime,  myse'f." 

"I  reckon  he  know  now  who  Jupe  b'long 
to,"  she  went  on,  ignoring  his  expression  of 
sympathy;  "no  need  to  tell  him  who  Pol'cy 


3o8  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

b'long  to,  nuther.  An'  I  tell  you,  Mista  Gil- 
ma,"  she  went  on,  leaning  upon  the  table  with- 
out seating  herself,  "dey  gwine  back  to  hard 
times  in  Caddo.  I  heah  tell  dey  nuva  gits 
'nough  to  eat,  yonda.  Septime,  he  can't  do 
nuttin'  'cep'  set  still  all  twis'  up  like  a  sarpint. 
An'  Ma'me  Broze,  she  do  some  kine  sewin'; 
but  don't  look  like  she  got  sense  'nough  to 
do  dat  halfway.  An'  dem  li'le  gals,  dey  'bleege 
to  run  bar'foot  mos'  all  las'  winta',  twell  dat 
li'les'  gal,  she  got  her  heel  plum  fros'  bit,  so 
dey  tells  me.  Oh,  lawsy!  How  dey  gwine 
look  to-mor',  all  trapsin'  back  to  Caddo!" 

Gilma  had  never  found  Aunt  Halifax's  com- 
pany so  intensely  disagreeable  as  at  that  mo- 
ment. He  thanked  her  for  the  coffee,  and 
went  away  so  suddenly  as  to  startle  her.  But 
her  good  humor  never  flagged.  She  called 
out  to  him  from  the  doorway: 

"Oh,  Mista  Gilma!  You  reckon  dey  knows 
who  Pol'cy  b'longs  to  now?" 

He  somehow  did  not  feel  quite  prepared  to 
face  Septime;  and  he  lingered  along  the  road. 
He  even  stopped  a  while  to  rest,  apparently, 
under  the  shade  of  a  huge  cottonwood  tree 
that   overhung  the   bayou.     From   the   very 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  309 

first,  a  subtle  uneasiness,  a  self-dissatisfaction 
had  mingled  with  his  elation,  and  he  was  try- 
ing to  discover  what  it  meant. 

To  begin  with,  the  straightforwardness  of 
his  own  nature  had  inwardly  resented  the  sud- 
den change  in  the  bearing  of  most  people  to- 
ward himself.  He  was  trying  to  recall,  too, 
something  which  the  lawyer  had  said;  a  little 
phrase,  out  of  that  multitude  of  words,  that 
had  fallen  in  his  consciousness.  It  had  stayed 
there,  generating  a  little  festering  sore  place 
that  was  beginning  to  make  itself  irritatingly 
felt.  What  was  it,  that  little  phrase?  Some- 
thing about — in  his  excitement  he  had  only 
half  heard  it — something  about  dead  men's 
shoes. 

The  exuberant  health  and  strength  of  his 
big  body;  the  courage,  virility,  endurance  of 
his  whole  nature  revolted  against  the  expres- 
sion in  itself,  and  the  meaning  which  it  con- 
veyed to  him.  Dead  men's  shoes !  Were  they 
not  for  such  afflicted  beings  as  Septime?  as 
that  helpless,  dependent  woman  up  there?  as 
those  two  little  ones,  with  their  poorly  fed, 
poorly  clad  bodies  and  sweet,  appealing  eyes? 


310  Dead  Men's  Shoes. 

Yet  he  could  not  determine  how  he  would  act 
and  what  he  would  say  to  them. 

But  there  was  no  room  left  in  his  heart  for 
hesitancy  when  he  came  to  face  the  group. 
Septime  was  still  crouched  in  his  uncle's  chair; 
he  seemed  never  to  have  left  it  since  the  day 
of  the  funeral.  Ma'me  Broze  had  been  cry- 
ing, and  so  had  the  children — out  of  sympa- 
thy, perhaps. 

"Mr.  Septime,"  said  Gilma,  approaching,  "I 
brought  those  aff'davits  about  the  hoss.  I 
hope  you  about  made  up  yo'  mind  to  turn  it 
over  without  further  trouble." 

Septime  was  trembling,  bewildered,  almost 
speechless. 

"Wat  you  mean?"  he  faltered,  looking  up 
with  a  shifting,  sideward  glance.  "The  whole 
place  b'longs  to  you.  You  tryin'  to  make  a 
fool  out  o'  me?" 

"Fo'  me,"  returned  Gilma,  "the  place  can 
stay  with  Mr.  Gamiche's  own  flesh  an'  blood. 
I'll  see  Mr.  Pax'on  again  an'  make  that  ac- 
cording to  the  law.     But  I  want  my  hoss." 

Gilma  took  something  besides  his  horse — 
a  picture  of  le  vieux  Gamiche,  which  had  stood 
on  his  mantelpiece.       He  thrust  it  into  his 


Dead  Men's  Shoes.  311 

pocket.     He  also  took  his    old    benefactor's 
walking-stick  and  a  gun. 

As  he  rode  out  of  the  gate,  mounted  upon 
his  well-beloved  "Jupe,"  the  faithful  dog  fol-/ 
lowing,  Gilma  felt  as  if  he  had  awakened  from 
an  intoxicating  but  depressing  dream. 


At  Cheniere  Caminada 


At  Cheniere  Caminada 


THERE  was  no  clumsier  looking  fellow 
in  church  that  Sunday  morning  than 
Antoine  Bocaze — the  one  they  called 
Tonie.  But  Tonie  did  not  really  care  if 
he  were  clumsy  or  not,  He  felt  that  he 
could  speak  intelligibly  to  no  woman  save  his 
ml5tTTer7T3^  to  inflame 

the  hearts  of  any  of  the  island  maidens,  what 
difference  did  it  make? 

He  knew  there  was  no  better  fisherman  on 
the  Cheniere  Caminada  than  himself,  if  his 
face  was  too  long  and  bronzed,  his  limbs  too 
unmanageable  and  his  eyes  too  earnest — al- 
most too  honest. 

It  was  a  midsummer  day,  with  a  lazy, 
scorching  breeze  blowing  from  the  Gulf 
straight  into  the  church  windows.  The  rib- 
bons on  the  young  girls'  hats  fluttered  like 
the  wings     of    birds,  and    the    old  women 

315 


316  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

clutched  the  flapping  ends  of  the  veils  that 
covered  their  heads. 

A  few  mosquitoes,  floating  through  the  blis- 
tering air,  with  their  nipping  and  humming 
fretted  the  people  to  a  certain  degree  of  at- 
tention and  consequent  devotion.  The  meas- 
ured tones  of  the  priest  at  the  altar  rose  and 
fell  like  a  song:  "Credo  in  unum  Deum  pa- 
ttern omnipotentem"  he  chanted.  And  then 
the  people  all  looked  at  one  another,  suddenly 
electrified. 

Some  onewas  playing  uponthe  organwhose 
notes  no  one  on  the  whole  island  was  able  to 
awaken;  whose  tones  had  not  been  heard  dur- 
ing the  many  months  since  a  passing  stranger 
had  one  day  listlessly  dragged  his  fingers 
across  its  idle  keys.  A  long,  sweet  strain  of 
music  floated  down  from  the  loft  and  filled 
the  church. 

It  seemed  to  most  of  them — it  seemed  to 
Tonie  standing  there  beside  his  old  mother — 
that  some  heavenly  being  must  have  descended 
upon  the  Church  of  Our  Lady  of  Lourdes  and 
chosen  this  celestial  way  of  communicating 
with  its  people. 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  317 

But  it  was  no  creature  from  a  different 
sphere;  it  was  only  a  young  lady  from  Grand 
Isle.  A  rather  pretty  young  person  with  blue 
eyes  and  nut-brown  hair,  who  wore  a  dotted 
lawn  of  fine  texture  and  fashionable  make, 
and  a  white  Leghorn  sailor-hat. 

Tonie  saw  her  standing  outside  of  the 
church  after  mass,  receiving  the  priest's  volu- 
ble praises  and  thanks  for  her  graceful  service. 

She  had  come  over  to  mass  from  Grand  Isle 
in  Baptiste  Beaudelet's  lugger,  with  a  couple 
of  young  men,  and  two  ladies  who  kept  a  pen- 
sion over  there.  Tonie  knew  these  two  ladies 
— the  widow  Lebrun  and  her  old  mother — 
but  he  did  not  attempt  to  speak  with  them;  he 
would  not  have  known  what  to  say.  He  stood 
aside  gazing  at  the  group,  as  others  were  do- 
ing, his  serious  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  the 
fair  organist. 

Tonie  was  late  at  dinner  that  day.  His 
mother  must  have  waited  an  hour  for  him, 
sitting  patiently  with  her  coarse  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  in  that  little  still  room  with  its 
"brick-painted"  floor,  its  gaping  chimney  and 
homely  furnishings. 


318  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

He  told  her  that  he  had  been  walking — 
walking  he  hardly  knew  where,  and  he  did 
not  know  why.  He  must  have  tramped  from 
one  end  of  the  island  to  the  other;  but  he 
brought  her  no  bit  of  news  or  gossip.  He  did 
not  know  if  the  Cotures  had  stopped  for  din- 
ner with  the  Avendettes;  whether  old  Pierre 
Francois  was  worse,  or  better,  or  dead,  or  if 
lame  Philibert  was  drinking  again  this  morn- 
ing. He  knew  nothing;  yet  he  had  crossed 
the  village,  and  passed  every  one  of  its  small 
houses  that  stood  close  together  in  a  long, 
jagged  line  facing  the  sea;  they  were  gray 
and  battered  by  time  and  the  rude  buffets  of 
the  salt  sea  winds. 

He  knew  nothing,  though  the  Cotures  had 
all  bade  him  "good  day"  as  they  filed  into 
Avendette's,  where  a  steaming  plate  of  crab 
gumbo  was  waiting  for  each.  He  had  heard 
some  woman  screaming,  and  others  saying 
it  was  because  old  Pierre  Francois  had  just 
passed  away.  But  he  did  not  remember  this, 
nor  did  he  recall  the  fact  that  lame  Philibert 
had  staggered  against  him  when  he  stood  ab- 
sently watching  a  "fiddler"  sidling  across  the 
sun-baked  sand.     He  could  tell   his  mother 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.         319 

nothing  of  all  this;  but  he  said  he  had  noticed 
that  the  wind  was  fair  and  must  have  driven 
Baptiste's  boat,  like  a  flying  bird,  across  the 
water. 

Well,  that  was  something  to  talk  about,  and 
old  Ma'me  Antoine,  who  was  fat,  leaned  com- 
fortably upon  the  table  after  she  had  helped 
Tonie  to  his  courtbouillon,  and  remarked  that 
she  found  Madame  was  getting  old.  Tonie 
thought  that  perhaps  she  was  aging  and  her 
hair  was  getting  whiter.  He  seemed  glad  to 
talk  about  her,  and  reminded  his  mother  of 
old  Madame's  kindness  and  sympathy  at  the 
time  his  father  and  brothers  had  perished.  It 
was  when  he  was  a  little  fellow,  ten  years  be- 
fore, during  a  squall  in  Barataria  Bay. 

Ma'me  Antoine  declared  that  she  could 
never  forget  that  sympathy,  if  she  lived  till 
Judgment  Day;  but  all  the  same  she  was  sorry 
to  see  that  Madame  Lebrun  was  also  not  so 
young  or  fresh  as  she  used  to  be.  Her  chances 
of  getting  a  husband  were  surely  lessening 
eveTy~y ear ;  e^ecTally'^with'  the  young  girls 
around  her,  budding  each  spring  like  flowers 
to  be  plucked.  The  one  who  had  played  upon 
the  organ  was  Mademoiselle  Duvigne,  Claire 


320  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

Duvigne,  a  great  belle,  the  daughter  of  the 
Rampart  street.  Ma'me  Antoine  had  found 
that  out  during  the  ten  minutes  she  and 
others  had  stopped  after  mass  to  gossip  with 
the  priest. 

"Claire  Duvigne,"  muttered  Tonie,  not  even 
making  a  pretense  to  taste  his  courtbouillon, 
but  picking  little  bits  from  the  half  loaf  of 
crusty  brown  bread  that  lay  beside  his  plate. 
"Claire  Duvigne;  that  is  a  pretty  name.  Don't 
you  think  so,  mother?  I  can't  think  of  any- 
one on  the  Cheniere  who  has  so  pretty  a  one, 
nor  at  Grand  Isle,  either,  for  that  matter.  And 
you  say  she  lives  on  Rampart  street?" 

It  appeared  to  him  a  matter  of  great  im- 
portance that  he  should  have  his  mother  re- 
peat all  that  the  priest  had  told  her. 


II. 


Early  the  following  morning  Tonie  went  out 
in  search  of  lame  Philibert,  than  whom  there 
was  no  cleverer  workman  on  the  island  when 
he  could,  be  caught  sober. 

Tonie  had  tried  to  work  on  his  big  lugger 
that  lay  bottom  upward  under  the  shed,  but 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  321 

it  had  seemed  impossible.  His  mind,  his 
hands,  his  tools  refused  to  do  their  office,  and 
in  sudden  desperation  he  desisted.  He  found 
Philibert  and  set  him  to  work  in  his  own 
place  under  the  shed.  Then  he  got  into  his 
small  boat  with  the  red  lateen-sail  and  went 
over  to  Grand  Isle. 

There  was  no  one  at  hand  to  warn  Tonie 
that  he  was  acting  the  part  of  a  fool.  He 
had,  singularly,  never  felt  those  premonitory 
symptoms  of  love  which  afflict  the  greater  por- 
tion of  mankind  before  they  reach  the  age 
which  he  had  attained.  He  did  not  at  first 
recognize  this  powerful  impulse  that  had,  with- 
out warning,  possessed  itself  of  his  entire  be- 
ing. He  obeyed  it  without  a  struggle,  as  na- 
turally as  he  would  have  obeyed  the  dictates 
of  hunger  and  thirst. 

Tonie  left  his  boat  at  the  wharf  and  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  Mme.  Lebrun's  pension, 
which  consisted  of  a  group  of  plain,  stoutly 
built  cottages  that  stood  in  mid  island,  about 
half  a  mile  from  the  sea. 

The  day  was  bright  and  beautiful  with  soft, 
velvety  gusts  of  wind  blowing  from  the  water. 
From  a  cluster  of  orange  trees  a  flock  of  doves 


322  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

ascended,  and  Tonie  stopped  to  listen  to  the 
beating  of  their  wings  and  follow  their  flight 
toward  the  water  oaks  whither  he  himself  was 
moving. 

He  walked  with  a  dragging,  uncertain  step 
through  the  yellow,  fragrant  chamomile,  his 
thoughts  traveling  before  him.  In  his  mind 
was  always  the  vivid  picture  of  the  girl  as  it 
had  stamped  itself  there  yesterday,  connected 
in  some  mystical  way  with  that  celestial  music 
which  had  thrilled  him  and  was  vibrating  yet 
in  his  soul. 

But  she  did  not  look  the  same  to-day.  She 
was  returning  from  the  beach  when  Tonie  first 
saw  her,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  one  of  the 
men  who  had  accompanied  her  yesterday.  She 
was  dressed  differently — in  a  dainty  blue  cot- 
ton gown.  Her  companion  held  a  big  white 
sunshade  over  them  both.  They  had  ex- 
changed hats  and  were  laughing  with  great 
abandonment. 

Two  young  men  walked  behind  them  and 
were  trying  to  engage  her  attention.  She 
glanced  at  Tonie,  who  was  leaning  against  a 
tree  when  the  group  passed  by;  but  of  course 
she  did  not  know  him.     She  was  speaking 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  323 

English,  a  language  which  he  hardly  under- 
stood. 

There  were  other  young  people  gathered 
under  the  water  oaks — girls  who  were,  many 
of  them,  more  beautiful  TEan  "Mile.  Duvigne; 
but  for  Tonie  they  simply  did  not  exist.  His 
whole  universe  had  suddenly  become  con- 
verted into  a  glamorous  background  for  the 
person  of  Mile.  Duvigne,  and  the  shadowy 
figures  of  men  who  were  about  her. 

Tonie  went  to  Mme.  Lebrun  and  told  her 
he  would  bring  her  oranges  next  day  from  the 
Cheniere.  She  was  well  pleased,  and  com- 
missioned him  to  bring  her  other  things  from 
the  stores  there,  which  she  could  not  procure 
at  Grand  Isle.  She  did  not  question  his  pres- 
ence, knowing  that  these  summer  days  were 
idle  ones  for  the  Cheniere  fishermen.  Nor 
did  she  seem  surprised  when  he  told  her  that 
his  boat  was  at  the  wharf,  and  would  be  there 
every  day  at  her  service.  She  knew  his  frugal 
habits,  and  supposed  he  wished  to  hire  it,  as 
others  did.  He  intuitively  felt  that  this  could 
be  the  only  way. 

And  that  is  how  it  happened  that  Tonie 
spent  so  little  of  his  time  at  the  Cheniere  Ca- 


324  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

minada  that  summer.  Old  Ma'me  Antoine 
grumbled  enough  about  it.  She  herself  had 
been  twice  in  her  life  to  Grand  Isle  and  once 
to  Grand  Terre,  and  each  time  had  been  more 
than  glad  to  get  back  to  the  Cheniere.  And 
why  Tonie  should  want  to  spend  his  days,  and 
even  his  nights,  away  from  home,  was  a  thing 
she  could  not  comprehend,  especially  as  he 
would  have  to  be  away  the  whole  winter;  and 
meantime  there  was  much  work  to  be  done  at 
his  own  hearthside  and  in  the  company  of  his 
own  mother.  She  did  not  know  that  Tonie 
had  much,  much  more  to  do  at  Grand  Isle 
than  at  the  Cheniere  Caminada. 

He  had  to  see  how  Claire  Duvigne  sat  upon 
the  gallery  in  the  big  rocking  chair  that  she 
kept  in  motion  by  the  impetus  of  her  slender, 
slippered  foot;  turning  her  head  this  way  and 
that  way  to  speak  to  the  men  who  were  always 
near  her.  He  had  to  follow  her  lithe  motions 
at  tennis  or  croquet,  that  she  often  played 
with  the  children  under  the  trees.  Some  days 
he  wanted  to  see  how  she  spread  her  bare, 
white  arms,  and  walked  out  to  meet  the  foam- 
crested  waves.  Even  here  there  were  men 
with  her.    And  then  at  night,  standing  alone 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.         325 

like  a  still  shadow  under  the  stars,  did  he  not 
have  to  listen  to  her  voice  when  she  talked 
and  laughed  and  sang?  Did  he  not  have  to 
follow  her  slim  figure  whirling  through  the 
dance,  in  the  arms  of  men  who  must  have 
loved  her  and  wanted  her  as  he  did.  He  did 
not  dream  that  they  could  help  it  more  than  he 
could  help  it.  But  the  days  when  she  stepped 
into  his  boat,  the  one  with  the  red  lateen  sail, 
and  sat  for  hours  within  a  few  feet  of  him, 
were  days  that  he  would  have  given  up  for 
nothing  else  that  he  could  think  of. 

III. 

There  were  always  others  in  her  company 
at  such  times,  young  people  with  jests  and 
laughter  on  their  lips.  Only  once  she  was 
alone. 

She  had  foolishly  brought  a  book  with  her, 
thinking  she  would  want  to  read.  But  with 
the  breath  of  the  sea  stinging  her  she  could 
not  read  a  line.  She  looked  precisely  as  she 
had  looked  the  day  he  first  saw  her,  standing 
outside  of  the  church  at  Cheniere  Caminada. 

She  laid  the  book  down  in  her  lap,  and  let 
her  soft  eyes  sweep  dreamily  along  the  line 


326  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

of  the  horizon  where  the  sky  and  water  met. 
Then  she  looked  straight  at  Tonie,  and  for 
the  first  time  spoke  directly  to  him. 

She  called  him  Tonie,  as  she  had  heard 
others  do,  and  questioned  him  about  his  boat 
and  his  work.  He  trembled,  and  answered  her 
vaguely  and  stupidly.  She  did  not  mind,  but 
spoke  to  him  anyhow,  satisfied  to  talk  herself 
when  she  found  that  he  could  not  or  would 
not.  She  spoke  French,  and  talked  about  the 
Cheniere  Caminada,  its  people  and  its  church. 
She  talked  of  the  day  she  had  played  upon  the 
organ  there,  and  complained  of  the  instru- 
ment being  woefully  out  of  tune. 

Tonie  was  perfectly  at  home  in  the  familiar 
task  of  guiding  his  boat  before  the  wind  that 
bellied  its  taut,  red  sail  He  did  not  seem 
clumsy  and  awkward  as  when  he  sat  in 
church.  The  girl  noticed  that  he  appeared  as 
strong  as  an  ox. 

As  she  looked  at  him  and  surprised  one  of 
his  shifting  glances,  a  glimmer  of  the  truth 
began  to  dawn  faintly  upon  her.  She  remem- 
bered how  she  had  encountered  him  daily  in 
her  path,  with  his  earnest,  devouring  eyes  al- 
ways   seeking    her    out.     She  recalled — but 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  327 

there  was  no  need  to  recall  anything.  There 
are  women  whose  perception  of  passion  is 
very  keen;  they  are  the  women  who  most  in- 
spire it. 

A  feeling  of  complacency  took  possession 
of  her  with  this  conviction.  There  was  some 
softness  and  sympathy  mingled  with  it.  She 
would  have  liked  to  lean  over  and  pat  his  big, 
brown  hand,  and  tell  him  she  felt  sorry  and 
would  have  helped  it  if  she  could.  With  this 
belief  he  ceased  to  be  an  object  of  complete 
indifference  in  her  eyes.  She  had  thought, 
awhile  before,  of  having  him  turn  about  and 
take  her  back  home.  But  now  it  was  really 
piquant  to  pose  for  an  hour  longer  before  a 
man — even  a  rough  fisherman — to  whom  she 
felt  herself  to  be  an  object  of  silent  and  con- 
suming devotion.  She  could  think  of  nothing 
more  interesting  to  do  on  shore. 

She  was  incapable  of  conceiving  the  full 
force  and  extent  of  his  infatuation.  She  did 
not  dream  that  under  the  rude,  calm  exterior 
before  her  a  man's  heart  was  beating  clamor- 
ously, and  his  reason  yielding  to  the  savage 
instinct  of  his  blood. 


328  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

"I  hear  the  Angelus  ringing  at  Cheniere, 
Tonie,"  she  said.  "I  didn't  know  it  was  so 
late;  let  us  go  back  to  the  island."  There  had 
been  a  long  silence  which  her  musical  voice 
interrupted. 

Tonie  could  now  faintly  hear  the  Angelus 
bell  himself.  A  vision  of  the  church  came 
with  it,  the  odor  of  incense  and  the  sound  of 
the  organ.  The  girl  before  him  was  again 
that  celestial  being  whom  our  Lady  of 
Lourdes  had  once  offered  to  his  immortal 
vision. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  they  landed  at 
the  pier,  and  frogs  had  begun  to  croak  among 
the  reeds  in  the  pools.  There  were  two  of 
Mile.  Duvigne's  usual  attendants  anxiously 
awaiting  her  return.  But  she  chose  to  let 
Tonie  assist  her  out  of  the  boat.  The  touch 
of  her  hand  fired  his  blood  again. 

She  said  to  him  very  low  and  half-laughing, 
"I  have  no  money  tonight,  Tonie ;  take  this  in- 
stead," pressing  into  his  palm  a  delicate  silver 
chain,  which  she  had  worn  twined  about  her 
bare  wrist.  It  was  purely  a  spirit  of  coquetry 
that  prompted  the  action,  and  a  touch  of  the 
sentimentality  which    most    women    possess. 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  329 

She  had  read  in  some  romance  of  a  young  girl 
doing  something  like  that. 

As  she  walked  away  between  her  two  at- 
tendants she  fancied  Tonie  pressing  the  chain 
to  his  lips.  But  he  was  standing  quite  still, 
and  held  it  buried  in  his  tightly-closed  hand; 
wanting  to  hold  as  long  as  he  might  the 
warmth  of  the  body  that  still  penetrated  the 
bauble  when  she  thrust  it  into  his  hand. 

He  watched  her  retreating  figure  like  a 
blotch  against  the  fading  sky.  He  was  stirred 
by  a  terrible,  an  overmastering  regret,  that  he 
had  not  clasped  her  in  his  arms  when  they 
were  out  there  alone,  and  sprung  with  her 
into  the  sea.  It  was  what  he  had  vaguely 
meant  to  do  when  the  sound  of  the  Angelus 
had  weakened  and  palsied  his  resolution.  Now 
she  was  going  from  him,  fading  away  into 
the  mist  with  those  figures  on  either  side  of 
her,  leaving  him  alone.  He  resolved  within 
himself  that  if  ever  again  she  were  out  there 
on  the  sea  aETTisf  mercy,  she  would  have  to 
fterTs Irfli "his  armSj IZH e  would  go  far,  far  out 
where  the  sound  of  no  bell  could  reach  him. 
There  was  some  comfort  for  him  in  the 
thought. 


33°  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

But  as  it  happened,  Mile.  Duvigne  never 
went  out  alone  in  the  boat  with  Tonie  again. 

IV. 

It  was  one  morning  in  January.  Tonie  had 
been  collecting  a  bill  from  one  of  the  fish- 
mongers at  the  French  Market,  in  New  Or- 
leans, and  had  turned  his  steps  toward  St. 
Philip  street.  The  day  was  chilly;  a  keen 
wind  was  blowing.  Tonie  mechanically  but- 
toned his  rough,  warm  coat  and  crossed  over 
into  the  sun. 

There  was  perhaps  not  a  more  wretched- 
hearted  being  in  the  whole  district,  that  morn- 
ing, than  he.  For  months  the  woman  he  so 
hopelessly  loved  had  been  lost  to  his  sight. 
But  all  the  more  she  dwelt  in  his  thoughts, 
preying  upon  his  mental  and  bodily  forces  un- 
til his  unhappy  condition  became  apparent  to 
all  who  knew  him.  Before  leaving  his  home 
for  the  winter  fishing  grounds  he  had  opened 
his  whole  heart  to  his  mother,  and  told  her 
of  the  trouble  that  was  killing  him.  She  hard- 
ly expected  that  he  would  ever  come  back  to 
her  when  he  went  away.  She  feared  that  he 
would  not,  for  he  had  spoken  wildly  of  the 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  331 

rest  and  peace  that  could  only  come  to  him 
with  death. 

That  morning  when  Tonie  had  crossed  St. 
Philip  street  he  found  himself  accosted  by 
Madame  Lebrun  and  her  mother.  He  had 
not  noticed  them  approaching,  and,  moreover, 
their  figures  in  winter  garb  appeared  unfa- 
miliar to  him.  He  had  never  seen  them  else- 
where than  at  Grand  Isle  and  the  Cheniere 
during  the  summer.  They  were  glad  to  meet 
him,  and  shook  his  hand  cordially.  He  stood 
as  usual  a  little  helplessly  before  them.  A 
pulse  in  his  throat  was  beating  and  almost 
choking  him,  so  poignant  were  the  recollec- 
tions which  their  presence  stirred  up. 

They  were  staying  in  the  city  this  winter, 
they  told  him.  They  wanted  to  hear  the 
opera  as  often  as  possible,  and  the  island  was 
really  too  dreary  with  everyone  gone.  Madame 
Lebrun  had  left  her  son  there  to  keep  order 
and  superintend  repairs,  and  so  on. 

"You  are  both  well?,,  stammered  Tonie. 

"In  perfect  health,  my  dear  Tonie/'  Ma- 
dame Lebrun  replied.  She  was  wondering  at 
his  haggard  eyes  and  thin,  gaunt  cheeks;  but 
possessed  too  much  tact  to  mention  them. 


332  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

"And — the  young  lady  who  used  to  go  sail- 
ing— is  she  well?"  he  inquired  lamely. 

"You  mean  Mile.  Favette?  She  was  mar- 
ried just  after  leaving  Grand  Isle." 

"No;  I  mean  the  one  you  called  Claire — 
Mamzelle  Duvigne — is  she  well?" 

Mother  and  daughter  exclaimed  together: 
"Impossible!  You  haven't  heard?  Why,  To- 
nie,"  madame  continued,  "Mile.  Duvigne  died 
three  weeks  ago.  But  that  was  something 
sad,  I  tell  you!. . .  .Her  family  heartbroken.. . 
Simply  from  a  cold  caught  by  standing  in  thin 
slippers,  waiting  for  her  carriage  after  the 
opera What  a  warning!" 

The  two  were  talking  at  once.  Tonie  kept 
looking  from  one  to  the  other.  He  did  not 
know  what  they  were  saying,  after  madame 
had  told  him,  "Elle  est  morte." 

As  in  a  dream  he  finally  heard  that  they 
said  good-by  to  him,  and  sent  their  love  to 
his  mother. 

He  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  ban- 
quette when  they  had  left  him,  watching  them 
go  toward  the  market.  He  could  not  stir. 
Something  had  happened  to  him — he  did  not 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  333 

know  what.     He  wondered  if  the  news  was 
killing  him. 

Some  women  passed  by,  laughing  coarsely. 
He  noticed  how  they  laughed  and  tossed  their 
heads.  A  mockingbird  was  singing  in  a  cage 
which  hung  from  a  window  above  his  head. 
He  had  not  heard  it  before. 

Just  beneath  the  window  was  the  entrance 
to  a  barroom.  Tonie  turned  and  plunged 
through  its  swinging  doors.  He  asked  the 
bartender  for  whisky.  The  man  thought  he 
was  already  drunk,  but  pushed  the  bottle  to- 
ward him  nevertheless.  Tonie  poured  a  great 
quantity  of  the  fiery  liquor  into  a  glass  and 
swallowed  it  at  a  draught.  The  rest  of  the 
day  he  spent  among  the  fishermen  and  Bara- 
taria  oystermen;  and  that  night  he  slept 
soundly  and  peacefully  until  morning. 

He  did  not  know  why  it  was  so;  he  could 
not  understand.  But  from  that  day  he  felt, 
that  he  began  to  jive.again,  to  be  once  more' 
a  part  of  the  moving  world  about  him.  He 
would  ask  himself  over  and  over  again  why  it 
was  so,  and  stay  bewildered  before  this  truth 
that  he  could  not  answer  or  explain,  and 
which  he  began  to  accept  as  a  holy  mystery. 


334  At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

One  day  in  early  spring  Tonie  sat  with  his 
mother  upon  a  piece  of  drift-wood  close  to  the 
sea. 

He  had  returned  that  day  to  the  Cheniere 
Caminada.  At  first  she  thought  he  was  like 
his  former  self  again,  for  all  his  old  strength 
and  courage  had  returned.  But  she  found 
that  there  was  a  new  brightness  in  his  face 
which  had  not  been  there  before.  It  made  her 
think  of  the  Holy  Ghost  descending  and 
bringing  some  kind  of  light  to  a  man. 

She  knew  that  Mademoiselle  Duvigne  was 
dead,  and  all  along  had  feared  that  this  knowl- 
edge would  be  the  death  of  Tonie.  When  she 
saw  him  come  back  to  her  like  a  new  being, 
at  once  she  dreaded  that  he  did  not  know. 
All  day  the  doubt  had  been  fretting  her,  and 
she  could  bear  the  uncertainty  no  longer. 

"You  know,  Tonie — that  young  lady  whom 
you  cared  for — well,  some  one  read  it  to  me  in 
the  papers — she  died  last  winter."  She  had 
tried  to  speak  as  cautiously  as  she  could. 

"Yes,  I  know  she  is  dead.    I  am  glad." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  said  this  in 
words,  and  it  made  his  heart  beat  quicker. 


At  Cheniere  Caminada^  335 

Ma'me  Antoine  shuddered  and  drew  aside 
from  him.  To  her  it  was  somehow  Jike  mur- 
der to  saj^sjicjh  a  thing. 

What  do  you  mean?  Why  are  you  glad?" 
she  demanded,  indignantly. 

Tonie  was  sitting  with  his  elbows  on  his 
knees.  He  wanted  to  answer  his  mother,  but 
it  would  take  time;  he  would  have  to  think. 
He  looked  out  across  the  water  that  glistened 
gem-like  with  the  sun  upon  it,  but  there  was 
nothing  there  to  open  his  thought.  He  looked 
down  into  his  open  palm  and  began  to  pick 
at  the  callous  flesh  that  was  hard  as  a  horse's 
hoof.  Whilst  he  did  this  his  ideas  began  to 
gather  and  take  form. 

"You  see,  while  she  lived  I  could  never 
hope  for  anything,"  he  began,  slowly  feeling 
his  way.  "Despair  was  the  only  thing  for 
me.  There  were  always  men  about  her.  She 
walked  and  sang  and  danced  with  them.  I 
knew  it  all  the  time,  even  when  I  didn't  see 
her.  But  I  saw  her  often  enough.  I  knew 
that  some  day  one  of  them  would  please  her 
and  she  would  give  herself  to  him— she  would 
marry  him.  That  thought  haunted  me  like 
an  evil  spirit.'* 


336         At  Cheniere  Caminada. 

Tonie  passed  his  hand  across  his  forehead 
as  if  to  sweep  away  anything  of  the  horror  that 
might  have  remained  there. 

"It  kept  me  awake  at  night,"  he  went  on. 
"But  that  was  not  so  bad;  the  worst  torture 
was  to  sleep,  for  then  I  would  dream  that  it 
was  all  true. 

"Oh,  I  could  see  her  married  to  one  of 
them — his  wife — coming  year  after  year  to 
Grand  Isle  and  bringing  her  little  children  with 
her!  I  can't  tell  you  all  that  I  saw — all  that  was 
driving  me  mad!  But  now" — and  Tonie 
clasped  his  hands  together  and  smiled  as  he 
looked  again  across  the  water — "shje_js__where 
she  belongs;  there  is  no  difference  up  there ; 
the  cure  has  often  told  us  there  is  no  differ- 
ence between  men.  It  is  with  the  squI.  that 
we  approach  each  "other  there.  Then  she  will 
know  who  has  loved  her  best.  That  is  why 
I  am  so  contented.  Who  knows  what  may 
happen  up  there?" 

Ma'me  Antoine  could  not  answer.  She 
only  took  her  son's  big,  rough  hand  and 
pressed  it  against  her. 

"And  now,  ma  mere,"  he  exclaimed,  cheer- 
fully, rising,  "I  shall  go  light  the  fire  for  your 


At  Cheniere  Caminada.  337 

bread;  it  is  a  long  time  since  I  have  done  any- 
thing for  you/'  and  he  stooped  and  pressed  a 
warm  kiss  on  her  withered  old  cheek. 

With  misty  eyes  she  watched  him  walk 
away  in  the  direction  of  the  big  brick  oven 
that  stood  open-mouthed  under  the  lemon 
trees. 


Odalie  Misses  Mass 


Odalie  Misses  Mass 

ODALIE  sprang  down  from  the  mule- 
cart,  shook  out  her  white  skirts,  and 
firmly  grasping  her  parasol,  which  was 
blue  to  correspond  with  her  sash,  entered 
Aunt  Pinky's  gate  and  proceeded  towards  the 
old  woman's  cabin.  She  was  a  thick-waisted 
young  thing  who  walked  with  a  firm  tread 
and  carried  her  head  with  a  determined  poise. 
Her  straight  brown  hair  had  been  rolled  up 
over  night  in  papillotes,  and  the  artificial  curls 
stood  out  in  clusters,  stiff  and  uncompromis- 
ing beneath  the  rim  of  her  white  chip  hat. 
Her  mother,  sister  and  brother  remained 
seated  in  the  cart  before  the  gate. 

It  was  the  fifteenth  of  August,  the  great  feast 
of  the  Assumption,  so  generally  observed  in 
the  Catholic  parishes  of  Louisiana.  The  Cho- 
tard  family  were  on  their  way  to  mass,  and 
Odalie  had  insisted  upon  stopping  to  "show 

341 


342  Odalie  Misses   Mass. 

herself"  to  her  olcl  friend  and  protegee,  Aunt 
Pinky. 

The  helpless,  shrivelled  old  negress  sat  in 
the  depths  of  a  large,  rudely-fashioned  chair. 
A  loosely  hanging  unbleached  cotton  gown 
enveloped  her  mite  of  a  figure.  What  was 
visible  of  her  hair  beneath  the  bandana  tur- 
ban, looked  like  white  sheep's  wool.  She  wore 
round,  silver-rimmed  spectacles,  which  gave 
her  an  air  of  wisdom  and  respectability,  and 
she  held  in  her  hand  the  branch  of  a  hickory 
sapling,  with  which  she  kept  mosquitoes  and 
flies  at  bay,  and  even  chickens  and  pigs  that 
sometimes  penetrated  the  heart  of  her  domain. 

Odalie  walked  straight  up  to  the  old  woman 
and  kissed  her  on  the  cheek. 

"Well,  Aunt  Pinky,  yere  I  am,"  she  an- 
nounced with  evident  self-complacency,  turn- 
ing herself  slowly  and  stiffly  around  like  a 
mechanical  dummy.  In  one  hand  she  held 
her  prayer-book,  fan  and  handkerchief,  in  the 
other  the  blue  parasol,  still  open;  and  on  her 
plump  hands  were  blue  cotton  mitts.  Aunt 
Pinky  beamed  and  chuckled;  Odalie  hardly 
expected  her  to  be  able  to  do  more. 


Odalie  Misses  Mass.  343 

"Now  you  saw  me,"  the  child  continued. 
"I  reckon  you  satisfied.  I  mus'  go;  I  ain't 
got  a  minute  to  was'e."  But  at  the  threshold 
she  turned  to  inquire,  bluntly: 

"W'ere's  Pug?" 

"Pug,"  replied  Aunt  Pinky,  in  her  tremu- 
lous old-woman's  voice.  "She's  gone  to 
chu'ch;  done  gone;  she  done  gone,"  nodding 
her  head  in  seeming  approval  of  Pug's  action. 

"To  church!"  echoed  Odalie  with  a  look  of 
consternation  settling  in  her  round  eyes. 

"She  gone  to  chu'ch,"  reiterated  Aunt 
Pinky.  "Say  she  kain't  miss  chu'ch  on  de 
fifteent';  de  debble  gwine  pester  her  twell 
jedgment,  she  miss  chu'ch  on  de  fifteent'." 

Odalie's  plump  cheeks  fairly  quivered  with 
indignation  and  she  stamped  her  foot.  She 
looked  up  and  down  the  long,  dusty  road  that 
skirted  the  river.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen 
save  the  blue  cart  with  its  dejected  looking 
mule  and  patient  occupants.  She  walked  to 
the  end  of  the  gallery  and  called  out  to  a 
negro  boy  whose  black  bullet-head  showed 
up  in  bold  relief  against  the  white  of  the  cot- 
ton patch: 


344  Odalie  Misses  Mass. 

"He,  Baptiste!  w'ere's  yo'  ma?  Ask  yo* 
ma  if  she  can't  come  set  with  Aunt  Pinky." 

"Mammy,  she  gone  to  chu'ch,"  screamed 
Baptiste  in  answer. 

"Bonte!  w'at's  taken  you  all  darkies  with 
yo'  'church'  to-day?  You  come  along  yere 
Baptiste  an'  set  with  Aunt  Pinky.  That  Pug! 
I'm  goin'  to  make  yo'  ma  wear  her  out  fo'  that 
trick  of  hers — leavin'  Aunt  Pinky  like  that." 

But  at  the  first  intimation  of  what  was 
wanted  of  him,  Baptiste  dipped  below  the  cot- 
ton like  a  fish  beneath  water,  leaving  no  sight 
nor  sound  of  himself  to  answer  Odalie's  re- 
peated calls.  Her  mother  and  sister  were  be- 
ginning to  show  signs  of  impatience. 

"But,  I  can't  go,"  she  cried  out  to  them. 
"It's  nobody  to  stay  with  Aunt  Pinky.  I 
can't  leave  Aunt  Pinky  like  that,  to  fall  out 
of  her  chair,  maybe,  like  she  already  fell  out 
once." 

"You  goin'  to  miss  mass  on  the  fifteenth, 
you,  Odalie!  Wat  you  thinkin'  about?"  came 
in  shrill  rebuke  from  her  sister.  But  her 
mother  offering  no  objection,  the  boy  lost  not 
a  moment  in  starting  the  mule  forward  at  a 
brisk  trot.     She  watched  them  disappear  in 


Odalie  Misses  Mass.  345 

a  cloud  of  dust;  and  turning  with  a  dejected, 
almost  tearful  countenance,  re-entered  the 
room. 

Aunt  Pinky  seemed  to  accept  her  reappear- 
ance as  a  matter  of  course;  and  even  evinced 
no  surprise  at  seeing  her  remove  her  hat  and 
mitts,  which  she  laid  carefully,  almost  relig- 
iously, on  the  bed,  together  with  her  book, 
fan  and  handkerchief. 

Then  Odalie  went  and  seated  herself  some 
distance  from  the  old  woman  in  her  own  small, 
low  rocking-chair.  She  rocked  herself  furi- 
ously, making  a  great  clatter  with  the  rockers 
over  the  wide,  uneven  boards  of  the  cabin 
floor;  and  she  looked  out  through  the  open 
door. 

"Puggy,  she  done  gone  to  chu'ch;  done 
gone.  Say  de  debble  gwine  pester  her  twell 
jedgment — " 

"You  done  tole  me  that,  Aunt  Pinky;  neva 
mine;  don't  le's  talk  about  it." 

Aunt  Pinky  thus  rebuked,  settled  back  into 
silence  and  Odalie  continued  to  rock  and 
stare  out  of  the  door. 

Once  she  arose,  and  taking  the  hickory 
branch    from    Aunt    Pinky's  nerveless  hand, 


346  Odalie  Misses  Mass. 

made  a  bold  and  sudden  charge  upon  a  little 
pig  that  seemed  bent  upon  keeping  her  com- 
pany. She  pursued  him  with  flying  heels  and 
loud  cries  as  far  as  the  road.  She  came  back 
flushed  and  breathless  and  her  curls  hanging 
rather  limp  around  her  face;  she  began  again 
to  rock  herself  and  gaze  silently  out  of  the 
door. 

"You  gwine  make  yo'  fus'  c'mmunion?" 

This  seemingly  sober  inquiry  on  the  part  of 
Aunt  Pinky  at  once  shattered  Odalie' s  ill- 
humor  and  dispelled  every  shadow  of  it.  She 
leaned  back  and  laughed  with  wild  abandon- 
ment. 

"Mais  w'at  you  thinkin'  about,  Aunt  Pinky? 
How  you  don't  remember  I  made  my  firs' 
communion  las'  year,  with  this  same  dress 
w'at  maman  let  out  the  tuck,"  holding  up  the 
altered  skirt  for  Aunt  Pinky's  inspection.  "An' 
with  this  same  petticoat  w'at  maman  added 
this  ruffle  an'  crochet'  edge;  excep'  I  had  a 
w'ite  sash." 

These  evidences  proved  beyond  question 
convincing  and  seemed  to  satisfy  Aunt  Pinky. 
Odalie  rocked  as  furiously  as  ever,  but  she 


Odalie  Misses  Mass.  347 

sang  now,  and  the  swaying  chair  had  worked 
its  way  nearer  to  the  old  woman. 

"You  gwine  git  mar'ied?" 

"I  declare,  Aunt  Pinky,"  said  Odalie,  when 
she  had  ceased  laughing  and  was  wiping  her 
eyes,  "I  declare,  sometime'  I  think  you  gittin' 
plumb  foolish.  How  you  expec'  me  to  git 
married  w'en  I'm  on'y  thirteen?" 

Evidently  Aunt  Pinky  did  not  know  why 
or  how  she  expected  anything  so  preposter- 
ous; Odalie's  holiday  attire  that  filled  her  with 
contemplative  rapture,  had  doubtless  incited 
her  to  these  vagaries. 

The  child  now  drew  her  chair  quite  close 
to  the  old  woman's  knee  after  she  had  gone 
out  to  the  rear  of  the  cabin  to  get  herself 
some  water  and  had  brought  a  drink  to  Aunt 
Pinky  in  the  gourd  dipper. 

There  was  a  strong,  hot  breeze  blowing 
from  the  river,  and  it  swept  fitfully  and  in 
gusts  through  the  cabin,  bringing  with  it  the 
weedy  smell  of  cacti  that  grew  thick  on  the 
bank,  and  occasionally  a  shower  of  reddish 
dust  from  the  road.  Odalie  for  a  while  was 
greatly  occupied  in  keeping  in  place  her  filmy 
skirt,  which  every  gust  of  wind  swelled  bal- 


348  Odalie  Misses  Mass. 

loon-like  about  her  knees.  Aunt  Pinky's  lit- 
tle black,  scrawny  hand  had  found  its  way 
among  the  droopy  curls,  and  strayed  often 
caressingly  to  the  child's  plump  neck  and 
shoulders. 

"You  riclics,  honey,  dat  day  yo'  granpappy 
say  it  wur  pinchin'  times  an'  he  reckin  he 
bleege  to  sell  Yallah  Tom  an'  Susan  an5 
Pinky?  Don'  know  how  come  he  think  'bout 
Pinky,  'less  caze  he  sees  me  playin'  an'  trap- 
sin'  roun'  wid  you  alls,  day  in  an'  out.  I 
riclics  yit  how  you  tu'n  w'ite  like  milk  an' 
fling  yo'  arms  roun'  li'le  black  Pinky;  an'  you 
cries  out  you  don'  wan'  no  saddle-mar';  you 
don'  wan'  no  silk  dresses  and  ring'  rings  an' 
sich;  an'  don'  wan'  no  idication;  des  wants 
Pinky.  An'  you  cries  an'  screams  an'  kicks, 
an'  'low  you  gwine  kill  fus'  pusson  w'at  dar 
come  an'  buy  Pinky  an'  kiars  her  off.  You 
riclics  dat,  honey?" 

Odalie  had  grown  accustomed  to  these 
flights  of  fancy  on  the  part  of  her  old  friend; 
she  liked  to  humor  her  as  she  chose  to  some- 
times humor  very  small  children;  so  she  was 
quite  used  to  impersonating  one  dearly  be- 
loved but  impetuous,  "Paulette,"  who  seemed 


Odalie  Misses  Mass.  349 

to  have  held  her  place  in  old  Pinky's  heart 
and  imagination  through  all  the  years  of  her 
suffering  life. 

"  I  rec'lec'  like  it  was  yesterday,  Aunt 
Pinky.  How  I  scream  an'  kick  an'  maman 
gave  me  some  med'cine;  an'  how  you  scream 
an'  kick  an'  Susan  took  you  down  to  the  quar- 
ters an*  give  you  'twenty/  " 

"Das  so,  honey;  des  like  you  says,"  chuck- 
led Aunt  Pinky.  "But  you  don*  riclic  dat 
time  you  cotch  Pinky  cryin'  down  in  de  holler 
behine  de  gin;  an*  you  say  you  gwine  give 
me  'twenty'  ef  I  don'  tell  you  w'at  I  cryin' 
'bout?" 

"I  rec'lec'  like  it  happen'd  to-day,  Aunt 
Pinky.  You  been  cryin'  because  you  want  to 
tnarry  Hiram,  ole  Mr.  Benitou's  servant." 

"Das  true  like  you  says,  Miss  Paulette;  an' 
you  goes  home  an'  cries  and  kiars  on  an'  won* 
eat,  an'  breaks  dishes,  an'  pesters  yo'  gran'pap 
'tell  he  bleedge  to  buy  Hi'um  f'om  de  Benl- 
tous." 

"Don't  talk,  Aunt  Pink!  I  can  see  all  that 
jus'  as  plain!"  responded  Odalie  sympatheti- 
cally, yet  in  truth  she  took  but  a  languid  in- 


35&  Odalie  Misses  Mass. 

terest  in  these  reminiscences  which  she  had 
listened  to  so  often  before. 

She  leaned  her  flushed  cheek  against  Aunt 
Pinky's  knee. 

The  air  was  rippling  now,  and  hot  and  ca- 
ressing. There  was  the  hum  of  bumble  bees 
outside;  and  busy  mud-daubers  kept  flying  in 
and  out  through  the  door.  Some  chickens 
had  penetrated  to  the  very  threshold  in  their 
aimless  roamings,  and  the  little  pig  was  ap- 
proaching more  cautiously.  Sleep  was  fast 
overtaking  the  child,  but  she  could  still  hear 
through  her  drowsiness  the  familiar  tones  of 
Aunt  Pinky's  voice. 

"But  Hi'um,  he  done  gone;  he  nuva  come 
back;  an'  Yallah  Tom  nuva  come  back;  an' 
ole  Marster  an'  de  chillun — all  gone — nuva 
come  back.  Nobody  nuva  come  back  to  Pinky 
'cep  you,  my  honey.  You  ain'  gwine  'way  font 
Pinky  no  mo',  is  you,  Miss  Paulette?" 

"Don'  fret,  Aunt  Pinky — I'm  goin' — to  stay 
with — you." 

"No  pussun  nuva  come  back  'cep'  you." 

Odalie  was  fast  asleep.  Aunt  Pinky  was 
asleep  with  her  head  leaning  back  on  her  chair 
and  her  fingers  thrust  into  the  mass  of  tangled 


Odalie  Misses  Mass.  351 

brown  hair  that  swept  across  her  lap.  The 
chickens  and  little  pig  walked  fearlessly  in 
and  out.  The  sunlight  crept  close  up  to  the 
cabin  door  and  stole  away  again. 

Odalie  awoke  with  a  start.  Her  mother 
was  standing  over  her  arousing  her  from 
sleep.  She  sprang  up  and  rubbed  her  eyes. 
"Oh,  I  been  asleep!"  she  exclaimed.  The  cart 
was  standing  in  the  road  waiting.  "An'  Aunt 
Pinky,  she's  asleep,  too." 

"Yes,  cherie,  Aunt  Pinky  is  asleep,"  replied 
her  mother,  leading  Odalie  away.  But  she 
spoke  low  and  trod  softly  as  gentle-souled 
women  do,  in  the  presence  of  the  dead. 


ll 


Cavanelle 


Cavanelle 

I  WAS  always  sure  of  hearing  something 
JL  pleasant  from  Cavanelle  across  the 
counter.  If  he  was  not  mistaking  me 
for  the  freshest  and  prettiest  girl  in  New  Or- 
leans, He  was  reserving  for  me  some  bit  of 
silk,  or  lace,  or  ribbon  of  a  nuance  marvel- 
ously  suited  to  my  complexion,  my  eyes  or 
my  hair!  What  an  innocent,  delightful  hum- 
bug Cavanelle  was!  How  well _I  knew  it  and 
how  little  I  cared!    For  when  he  had  sold  me 


the  confection  or  bit  of  dry-goods  in  question, 
he  always  began  to  talk  to  me  of  his  sister 
Mathilde,  and  then  I  knew  that  Cavanelle  was 
an  angel. 

I  had  known  him  long  enough  to  know 
why  he  worked  so  faithfully,  so  energetically 
and  without  rest — i^_was_because .  Mathilde 
had  a  voice.  It  was  because  of  her  voice  that 
his  coats  were  worn  till  they  were  out  of  fash- 

355 


356  Cavanelle. 

ion  and  almost  out  at  elbows.  But  for  a  sister 
whose  voice  needed  only  a  little  training  to 
rival  that  of  the  nightingale,  one  might  do 
such  things  without  incurring  reproach. 

"You  will  believe,  madame,  that  I  did  not 
know  you  las'  night  at  the  opera?  I  remark' 
to  Mathilde,  'tiens!  Mademoiselle  Montre- 
ville,'  an'  I  only  rec'nize  my  mistake  when  I 
finally  adjust  my  opera  glass I  guaran- 
tee you  will  be  satisfied,  madame.  In  a  year 
from  now  you  will  come  an'  thank  me  for 
having  secu'  you  that  bargain  in  a  poult-de- 

soie Yes,  yes;  as  you  say,  Tolville  was 

in  voice.  But,"  with  a  shrug  of  the  narrow 
shoulders  and  a  smile  of  commiseration  that 
wrinkled  the  lean  olive  cheeks  beneath  the 
thin  beard,  "but  to  hear  that  cavatina  render' 
as  I  have  heard  it  render'  by  Mathilde, 
is  another  affair!  A  quality,  madame,  that 
moves,  that  penetrates.  Perhaps  not  yet 
enough  volume,  but  that  will  accomplish  itself 
with  time,  when  she  will  become  more  robus' 
in  health.  It  is  my  intention  to  sen'  her  for  the 
summer  to  Gran'  Isle;  that  good  air  an*  surf 
bathing  will  work  miracles.  An  artiste,  voyez 
vous,  it  is  not  to  be  treated  like  a  human  be- 


CavaneJJe.  357 

ing  of  every  day;  it  needs  des  petits  soins; 
pefiecJ  res'  ~of^5^^mT'^nmd ;  good  red  wine 

an'  plenty oh  yes,  madame,  the  stage; 

that  is  our  intention ;  but  never  with  my  con- 
sent in  light  opera.  Patience  is  what  I  coun- 
sel to  Mathilde.  A  little  more  stren'th;  a  lit- 
tle dev'lopment  of  the  chest  to  give  that 
soupcon  of  compass  which  is  lacking,  an* 
gran*  opera  is  what  I  aspire  for  my  sister." 

I  was  curious  to  know  Mathilde  and  to  hear 
her  sing;  and  thought  it  a  great  pity  that  a 
voice  so  marvelous  as  she  doubtless  possessed 
should  not  gain  the  notice  that  might  prove 
the  step  toward  the  attainment  of  her  ambi- 
tion. It  was  such  curiosity  and  a  half-formed 
design  or  desire  to  interest  myself  in  her  ca- 
reer that  prompted  me  to  inform  Cavanelle 
that  I  should  greatly  like  to  meet  his  sister; 
and  I  asked  permission  to  call  upon  her  the 
following  Sunday  afternoon. 

Cavanelle  was  charmed.  He  otherwise 
would  not  have  been  Cavanelle.  Over  and 
over  I  was  given  the  most  minute  directions 
for  finding  the  house.  The  green  car — or  was 
it  the  yellow  or  blue  one?  I  can  no  longer  re- 
member.    But    it     was     near    Goodchildren 


358  Cavanelle. 

street,  and  would  I  kindly  walk  this  way  and 
turn  that  way?  At  the  corner  was  an  ice 
dealer's.  In  the  middle  of  the  block,  their 
house— one-story;  painted  yellow;  a  knocker; 
a  banana  tree  nodding  over  the  side  fence. 
But  indeed,  I  need  not  look  for  the  banana 
tree,  the  knocker,  the  number  or  anything, 
for  if  I  but  turn  the  corner  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  five  o'clock  I  would  find  him 
planted  at  the  door  awaiting  me. 

And  there  he  was!  Cavanelle  himself;  but 
seeming  to  me  not  himself;  apart  from  the 
entourage  with  which  I  was  accustomed  to 
associate  him.  Every  line  of  his  mobile  face, 
every  gesture  emphasized  the  welcome  which 
his  kind  eyes  expressed  as  he  ushered  me  into 
the  small  parlor  that  opened  upon  the  street. 

"Oh,  not  that  chair,  madame!  I  entreat 
you.  This  one,  by  all  means.  Thousan'  times 
more  comfortable." 

"Mathilde!  Strange;  my  sister  was  here 
but  an  instant  ago.  Mathilde!  Ou  es  tu 
done?"  Stupid  Cavanelle!  He  did  not  know 
when  I  had  already  guessed  it — that  Mathilde 
had  retired  to  the  adjoining  room  at  my  ap- 
proach, and  would  appear  after  a  sufficient  de- 


Cavanelle.  359 

lay  to  give  an  appropriate  air  of  ceremony  to 
our  meeting. 

And  what  a  frail  little  piece  of  mortality  she 
was  when  she  did  appear!  At  beholding  her 
I  could  easily  fancy  that  when  she  stepped 
outside  of  the  yellow  house,  the  zephyrs  would 
lift  her  from  her  feet  and,  given  a  proper  ad- 
justment of  the  balloon  sleeves,  gently  waft 
her  in  the  direction  of  Goodchildren  street,  or 
wherever  else  she  might  want  to  go. 

Hers  was  no  physique  for  grand  opera — - 
certainly  no  stage  presence;  apparently  so 
slender  a  hold  upon  life  that  the  least  tension 
might  snap  it.  The  voice  which  could  hope 
to  overcome  these  glaring  disadvantages 
would  have  to  be  phenomenal. 

Mathilde  spoke  English  imperfectly,  and 
with  embarrassment,  and  was  glad  to  lapse 
into  French.  Her  speech  was  languid,  unaf- 
fectedly so;  and  her  manner  was  one  of  indo- 
lent repose;  in  this  respect  offering  a  striking 
contrast  to  that  of  her  brother.  Cavanelle 
seemed  unable  to  rest.  Hardly  was  I  seated 
to  his  satisfaction  than  he  darted  from  the 
room  and  soon  returned  followed  by  a  limp- 


360  Cavanelle. 

ing  old  black  woman  bringing  in  a  sirop 
d'orgeat  and  layer  cake  on  a  tray. 

Mathilde's  face  showed  feeble  annoyance 
at  her  brother's  want  of  savoir  vivre  in  thus 
introducing  the  refreshments  at  so  early  a 
stage  of  my  visit. 

The  servant  was  one  of  those  cheap  black 
women  who  abound  in  the  French  quarter, 
who  speak  Creole  patois  in  preference  to  Eng- 
lish, and  who  would  rather  work  in  a  petit 
menage  in  Goodchildren  street  for  five  dollars 
a  month  than  for  fifteen  in  the  fourth  district. 
Her  presence,  in  some  unaccountable  manner, 
seemed  to  reveal  to  me  much  of  the  inner 
working  of  this  small  household.  I  pictured 
her  early  morning  visit  to  the  French  market, 
where  picayunes  were  doled  out  sparingly, 
and  lagniappes  gathered  in  with  avidity. 

I  could  see  the  neatly  appointed  dinner  ta- 
ble; Cavanelle  extolling  his  soup  and  bouillie 
in  extravagant  terms;  Mathilde  toying  with 
her  papabotte  or  chicken-wing,  and  pouring 
herself  a  demi-verre  from  her  very  own  half- 
bottle  of  St.  Julien;  Pouponne,  as  they  called 
her,  mumbling  and  grumbling  through  habit, 
and  serving    them    as    faithfully    as    a    dog 


Cavanelle.  361 

through  instinct.  I  wondered  if  they  knew 
that  Pouponne  "played  the  lottery"  with  every 
spare  "quarter"  gathered  from  a  judicious 
management  of  lagniappe.  Perhaps  they 
would  not  have  cared,  or  have  minded,  either, 
that  she  as  often  consulted  the  Voudoo  priest- 
ess around  the  corner  as  her  father  con- 
fessor. 

My  thoughts  had  followed  Pouponne's 
limping  figure  from  the  room,  and  it  was  with 
an  effort  I  returned  to  Cavanelle  twirling  the 
piano  stool  this  way  and  that  way.  Mathilde 
was  languidly  turning  over  musical  scores, 
and  the  two  warmly  discussing  the  merits  of 
a  selection  which  she  had  evidently  decided 
upon. 

The  girl  seated  herself  at  the  piano.  Her 
hands  were  thin  and  anaemic,  and  she  touched 
the  keys  without  firmness  or  delicacy.  When 
she  had  played  a  few  introductory  bars,  she 
began  to  sing.  Heaven  only  knows  what  she 
sang;  it  made  no  difference  then,  nor  can  it 
make  any  now. 

The  day  was  a  warm  one,  but  that  did  not 
prevent  a  creepy  chilliness  seizing  hold  of  me. 
The  feeling  was  generated  by  disappointment, 


362  Cavanelle. 

anger,  dismay  and  various  other  disagreeable 
sensations  which  I  cannot  find  names  for. 
Had  I  been  intentionally  deceived  and  misled? 
Was  this  some  impertinent  pleasantry  on  the 
part  of  Cavanelle?  Or  rather  had  not  the 
girl's  voice  undergone  some  hideous  transfor- 
mation since  her  brother  had  listened  to  it? 
I  dreaded  to  look  at  him,  fearing  to  see  horror 
and  astonishment  depicted  on  his  face.  When 
I  did  look,  his  expression  was  earnestly  atten- 
tive and  beamed  approval  of  the  strains  to 
which  he  measured  time  by  a  slow,  satisfied 
motion  of  the  hand. 

The  voice  was  thin  to  attenuation,  I  fear  it 
was  not  even  true.  Perhaps  my  disappoint- 
ment exaggerated  its  simple  deficiencies  into 
monstrous  defects.  But  it  was  an  unsympa- 
thetic voice  that  never  could  have  been  a 
blessing  to  possess  or  to  listen  to. 

I  cannot  recall  what  I  said  at  parting- 
doubtless  conventional  things  which  were  not 
true.  Cavanelle  politely  escorted  me  to  the 
car,  and  there  I  left  him  with  a  hand-clasp 
which  from  my  side  was  tender  with  sympathy 
and  pity. 

"Poor  Cavanelle!  poor  Cavanelle!"  The 
words  kept  beating  time  in  my  brain  to  the 


Cavanelle.  363 

jingle  of  the  car  bells  and  the  regular  ring  of 
the  mules'  hoofs  upon  the  cobble  stones.  One 
moment  I  resolved  to  have  a  talk  with  him 
in  which  I  would  endeavor  to  open  his  eyes 
to  the  folly  of  thus  casting  his  hopes  and  the 
substance  of  his  labor  to  the  winds.  The  next 
instant  I  had  decided  that  chance  would  pos- 
sibly attend  to  Cavanelle's  affair  less  clumsily 
than  I  could.  "But  all  the  same/'  I  wondered, 
"is  Cavanelle  a  fool?  is  he  a  lunatic?  is  he 
under  a  hypnotic  spell?"  And  then — strange 
that  I  did  not  think  of  it  before — I  realized 
that  Cavanelle  loved  Mathilde  intensely,  and 
wejill  know  that  love  is  blind,  but  a  god  just 
the  same. 

Two  years  passed  before  I  saw  Cavanelle 
again.  I  had  been  absent  that  length  of  time 
from  the  city.  In  the  meanwhile  Mathilde  had 
died.  She  and  her  little  voice — the  apotheosis 
of  insignificance — were  no  more.  It  was  per- 
haps a  year  after  my  visit  to  her  that  I  read  an 
account  of  her  death  in  a  New  Orleans  paper. 
Then  came  a  momentary  pang  of  commisera- 
tion for  my  good  Cavanelle.  Chance  had 
surely  acted  here  the  part  of  a  skillful  though 


364  Cavanelle. 

merciless  surgeon;  no  temporizing,  no  half 
measures.  A  deep,  sharp  thrust  of  the  scalpel; 
a  moment  of  agonizing  pain;  then  rest,  rest; 
convalescence;  health;  happiness!  Yes,  Ma- 
thilde  had  been  dead  a  year  and  I  was  pre- 
pared for  great  changes  in  Cavanelle. 

He  had  lived  like  a  hampered  child  who 
does  not  recognize  the  restrictions  hedging  it 
about,  and  lives  a  life  of  pathetic  contentment 
in  the  midst  of  them.  But  now  all  that  was 
altered.  He  was,  doubtless,  regaling  himself 
with  the  half-bottles  of  St.  Julien,  which  were 
never  before  for  him;  with,  perhaps,  an  occa- 
sional petit  souper  at  Moreau's,  and  there 
was  no  telling  what  little  pleasures  beside. 

Cavanelle  would  certainly  have  bought  him- 
self a  suit  of  clothes  or  two  of  modern  fit  and 
finish.  I  would  find  him  with  a  brightened 
eye,  a  fuller  cheek,  as  became  a  man  of  his 
years;  perchance,  even,  a  waxed  moustache! 
So  did  my  imagination  run  rampant  with  me. 

And  after  all,  the  hand  which  I  clasped 
across  the  counter  was  that  of  the  self-same 
Cavanelle  I  had  left.  It  was  no  fuller,  no 
firmer.  There  were  even  some  additional  lines 
visible  through  the  thin,  brown  beard. 


Cavanelle.  365 

"Ah,  my  poor  Cavanelle!  you  have  suffered 
a  grievous  loss  since  we  parted."  I  saw 
in  his  face  that  he  remembered  the  cir- 
cumstances of  our  last  meeting,  so  there  was 
no  use  in  avoiding  the  subject.  I  had  rightly 
conjectured  that  the  wound  had  been  a  cruel 
one,  but  in  a  year  such  wounds  heal  with  a 
healthy  soul. 

He  could  have  talked  for  hours  of  Ma- 
thilde's  unhappy  taking-off,  and  if  the  subject 
had  possessed  for  me  the  same  touching  fas- 
cination which  it  held  for  him,  doubtless,  we 
would  have  done  so,  but — 

"And  how  is  it  now,  mon  ami?  Are  you 
living  in  the  same  place?  running  your  little 
menage  as  before,  my  poor  Cavanelle?" 

"Oh,  yes,  madame,  except  that  my  Aunt 
Felicie  is  making  her  home  with  me  now.  You 
have  heard  me  speak  of  my  aunt — No?  You 
never  have  heard  me  speak  of  my  Aunt  Fe- 
licie Cavanelle  of  Terrebonne!  That,  ma- 
dame, is  a  noble  woman  who  has  suffer'  the 
mos'  cruel  affliction,  and  deprivation,  since  the 
war. — No,  madame,  not  in  good  health,  un- 
fortunately, by  any  means.  It  is  why  I  es- 
teem that  a  blessed  privilege  to  give  her  de- 


366  Cavanelle. 

,  dining  years  those  little  comforts,  ces  petits 
(soins,  that  is  a  woman's  right  to  expec'  from 
imen.  " 

I  knew  what  "des  petits  soins"  meant  with 
Cavanelle;  doctors'  visits,  little  jaunts  across 
the  lake,  friandises  of  every  description 
showered  upon  "Aunt  Felicie,"  and  he  him- 
self relegated  to  the  soup  and  bouillie  which 
typified  his  prosaic  existence. 

I  was  unreasonably  exasperated  with  the 
man  for  awhile,  and  would  not  even  permit 
myself  to  notice  the  beauty  in  texture  and  de- 
sign of  the  mousseline  de  laine  which  he  had 
spread  across  the  counter  in  tempting  folds. 
I  was  forced  to  restrain  a  brutal  desire  to  say 

fomething  stinging  and  cruel  to  him  for  his 
atuity. 

However,  before  I  had  regained  the  street, 
the  conviction  that  Cavanelle  was  a  hopeless 
fool  seemed  to  reconcile  me  to  the  situation 
and  also  afforded  me  some  diversion. 

But  even  this  estimate  of  my  poor  Cava- 
nelle was  destined  not  to  last.  By  the  time 
I  had  seated  myself  in  the  Prytania  street  car 
and  passed  up  my  nickel,  I  was  convinced  that 
Cavanelle  was  an  angel. 


Tante  Cat'rinette 


Tante  Cat'rinette 

IT  happened  just  as  every  one  had  pre- 
dicted. Tante  Cat'rinette  was  beside 
herself  with  rage  and  indignation  when 
she  learned  that  the  town  authorities  had  for 
some  reason  condemned  her  house  and  in- 
tended to  demolish  it. 

"Dat  house  w'at  Vieumaite  gi'  me  his  own 
se'f,  out  his  own  mout',  w'en  he  gi'  me  my 
freedom!  All  wrote  down  en  regie  befo'  de 
cote!  Bon  dieu  Seigneur,  w'at  dey  talkin' 
'bout!" 

Tante  Cat'rinette  stood  in  the  doorway  of 
her  home,  resting  a  gaunt  black  hand  against 
the  jamb.  In  the  other  hand  she  held  her  corn- 
cob pipe.  She  was  a  tall,  large-boned  woman 
of  a  pronounced  Congo  type.  The  house  in 
question  had  been  substantial  enough  in  its 
time.  It  contained  four  rooms :  the  lower  two 
of  brick,  the  upper  ones  of  adobe,    A  dilapi- 

369 


370  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

dated  gallery  projected  from  the  upper  story 
and  slanted  over  the  narrow  banquette,  to  the 
peril  of  passers-by. 

"I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  why  the  prop- 
erty was  given  to  you  in  the  first  place,  Tante 
Cat'rinette,"  observed  Lawyer  Paxton,  who 
had  stopped  in  passing,  as  so  many  others  did, 
to  talk  the  matter  over  with  the  old  negress. 
The  affair  was  attracting  some  attention  in 
town,  and  its  development  was  being  watched 
with  a  good  deal  of  interest.  Tante  Cat'rinette 
asked  nothing  better  than  to  satisfy  the  law- 
yer's curiosity. 

"Vieumaite  all  time  s_aj__Cafnr^Ue_wort' 
gole  to  'im ;  de  way  I  make  dem  nigga*  walk 
chalk.  But,"  she  continued,  with  recovered 
seriousness,  "w'en  I  nuss  'is  li'le  gal  w'at  all 
de  doctor*  'low  it  's  goin'  die,  an'  I  make  it 
well,  me,  den  Vieumaite,  he  can't  do  'nough, 
him.  He  name'  dat  li'le  gal  Cat'rine  fo'  me. 
Das  Miss  Kitty  w'at  marry  Miche  Raymond 
yon'  by  Gran'  Eco'.  Den  he  gi'  me  my  free- 
dom; he  got  plenty  slave',  him;  one  don' 
count  in  his  pocket.  An'  he  gi'  me  dat  house 
w'at  I'm  stan'in'  in  de  do';  he  got  plenty 
house'  an'  Ian',  him.    Now  dey  want  pay  me 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  371 

t'ousan'  dolla',  w'at  I  don1  axen'  fo',  an'  tu'n 
me  out  dat  house!  I  waitin'  fo'  'em,  Miche 
Paxtone,"  and  a  wicked  gleam  shot  into  the 
woman's  small,  dusky  eyes.  "  I  got  my  axe 
grine  fine.  Fus'  man  w'at  touch  Cat'rinette 
fo'  tu'n  her  out  dat  house,  he  git  'is  head  bus' 
like  I  bus'  a  gode." 

"Dat's  nice  day,  ainty,  Miche  Paxtone? 
Fine  wedda  fo'  dry  my  close."  Upon  the  gal- 
lery above  hung  an  array  of  shirts,  which 
gleamed  white  in  the  sunshine,  and  flapped  in 
the  rippling  breeze. 

The  spectacle  of  Tante  Cat'rinette  defying 
the  authorities  was  one  which  offered  much 
diversion  to  the  children  of  the  neighborhood. 
They  played  numberless  pranks  at  her  ex- 
pense; daily  serving  upon  her  fictitious  notices 
purporting  to  be  to  the  last  degree  official. 
One  youngster,  in  a  moment  of  inspiration, 
composed  a  couplet,  which  they  recited,  sang, 
shouted  at  all  hours,  beneath  her  windows. 
11  Tante  Cat'rinette,  she  go  in  town; 
Wen  she  come  back,  her  house  pull'  down.  " 

So  ran  the  production.  She  heard  it  many 
times  during  the  day,  but,  far  from  offending 
her,  she  accepted  it  as  a  warning, — a  predic- 


372  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

tion,  as  it  were, — and  she  took  heed  not  to 
offer  to  fate  the  conditions  for  its  fulfillment. 
She  no  longer  quitted  her  house  even  for  a 
moment,  so  great  was  her  fear  and  so  firm  her 
belief  that  the  town  authorities,  were,  lying  in 
wait  to  possess  themselves  of  it.  She  would 
not  cross  the  street  to  visit  a  neighbor.  She 
waylaid  passers-by  and  pressed  them  into  ser- 
vice to  do  her  errands  and  small  shopping. 
She  grew  distrustful  and  suspicious,  ever  on 
the  alert  to  scent  a  plot  in  the  most  innocent 
endeavor  to  induce  her  to  leave  the  house. 

One  morning,  as  Tante  Cat'rinette  was 
hanging  out  her  latest  batch  of  washing,  Eu- 
sebe,  a  "free  mulatto"  from  Red  River, 
stopped  his  pony  beneath  her  gallery. 

"He,  Tante  Cat'rinette !"  he  called  up  to 
her. 

She  turned  to  the  railing  just  as  she  was, 
in  her  bare  arms  and  neck  that  gleamed 
ebony-like  against  the  unbleached  cotton  of 
her  chemise.  A  coarse  skirt  was  fastened 
about  her  waist,  and  a  string  of  many-colored 
beads  knotted  around  her  throat.  She  held 
her  smoking  pipe  between  her  yellow  teeth. 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  373 

"How  you  all  come  on,  Miche  Eusebe?" 
she  questioned,  pleasantly. 

"We  all  middling  Tante  Cat'rinette.  But 
Miss  Kitty,  she  putty  bad  off  out  yon'a.  I 
see  Mista  Raymond  dis  mo'nin'  w'en  I  pass 
by  his  house;  he  say  look  like  de  feva  don' 
wan'  to  quit  'er.  She  been  axen  fo'  you  all 
t'rough  de  night.  He  'low  he  reckon  I  betta 
tell  you.  Nice  wedda  we  got  fo'  plantin', 
Tante  Cat'rinette." 

"Nice  wedda  fo'  lies,  Miche  Eusebe,"  and 
she  spat  contemptuously  down  upon  the  ban- 
quette. She  turned  away  without  noticing 
the  man  further,  and  proceeded  to  hang  one 
of  Lawyer  Paxton's  fine  linen  shirts  upon  the 
line. 

"She  been  axen*  fo'  you  all  t'rough  de 
night." 

Somehow  Tante  Cat'rinette  could  not  get 
that  refrain  out  of  her  head.  She  would  not 
willingly  believe  that  Eusebe  had  spoken  the 
truth,  but —  "She  been  axen  fo'  you  all 
t'rough  de  night — all  t'rough  de  night."  The 
words  kept  ringing  in  her  ears,  as  she  came 
and  went  about  her  daily  tasks.  But  by  de- 
grees she  dismissed  Eusebe  and  his  message 


374  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

from  her  mind.  It  was  Miss  Kitty's  voice 
that  she  could  hear  in  fancy  following  her, 
calling  out  through  the  night,  "Were  Tante 
Cat'rinette?  W'y  Tante  Cat'rinette  don' 
come?  W'y  she  don'  come — w'y  she  don' 
come?" 

All  day  the  woman  muttered  and  mumbled 
to  herself  in  her  Creole  patois ;  invoking  coun- 
cil of  "Vieumaite,"  as  she  always  did  in  her 
troubles.  Tante  Cat'rinette's  religion  was  pe- 
culiarly her  own;  she  turned  to  heaven  with 
her  grievances,  it  is  true,  but  she  felt  that 
there  was  no  one  in  Paradise  with  whom  she 
was  quite  so  well  acquainted  as  with  "Vieu- 
maite." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  went  and  stood  on 
her  doorstep,  and  looked  uneasily  and  anx- 
iously out  upon  the  almost  deserted  street. 
When  a  little  girl  came  walking  by, — a  sweet 
child  with  a  frank  and  innocent  face,  upon 
whose  word  she  knew  she  could  rely, — Tante 
Cat'rinette  invited  her  to  enter. 

"Come  yere  see  Tante  Cat'rinette,  Lolo.  It's 
long  time  you  en't  come  see  Tante  Cat'rine; 
you  gittin'  proud."     She  made  the  little  one 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  375 

sit  down,  and  offered  her  a  couple  of  cookies, 
which  the  child  accepted  with  pretty  avidity. 

"You  putty  good  li'le  gal,  you,  Lolo.  You 
keep  on  go  confession  all  de  time?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  goin'  make  my  firs'  com- 
munion firs'  of  May,  Tante  Cat'rinette."  A 
dog-eared  catechism  was  sticking  out  of  Lo- 
lo's  apron  pocket. 

"Das  right;  be  good  li'le  gal.  Mine  yo' 
maman  ev't'ing  she  say;  an'  neva  tell  no 
story.  It's  nuttin'  bad  in  dis  worl'  like  tellin' 
lies.    You  know  Eusebe?" 

"Eusebe?" 

"Yas;  dat  li'le  ole  Red  River  free  m'latto. 
Uh,  uh!  dat  one  man  w'at  kin  tell  lies,  yas! 
He  come  tell  me  Miss  Kitty  down  sick  yon'a. 
You  ev'  yeard  such  big  story  like  dat,  Lolo?" 

The  child  looked  a  little  bewildered,  but  she 
answered  promptly,  "  'Tain't  no  story,  Tante 
Cat'rinette.  I  yeard  papa  savin',  dinner  time, 
Mr.  Raymond  sen'  fo'  Dr.  Chalon.  An'  Dr. 
Chalon  says  he  ain't  got  time  to  go  yonda. 
An'  papa  says  it's  because  Dr.  Chalon  on'y 
want  to  go  w'ere  it's  rich  people;  an'  he's 
'fraid  Mista  Raymond  am'  goin'  pay  *im." 


376  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

Tante  Cat'rinette  admired  the  little  girl's 
pretty  gingham  dress,  and  asked  her  who  had 
ironed  it.  She  stroked  her  brown  curls,  and 
talked  of  all  manner  of  things  quite  foreign 
to  the  subject  of  Eusebe  and  his  wicked  pro- 
pensity for  telling  lies. 

She  was  not  restless  as  she  had  been  during 
the  early  part  of  the  day,  and  she  no  longer 
mumbled  and  muttered  as  she  had  been  doing 
over  her  work. 

At  night  she  lighted  her  coal-oil  lamp,  and 
placed  it  near  a  window  where  its  light  could 
be  seen  from  the  street  through  the  half-closed 
shutters.  Then  she  sat  herself  down,  erect  and 
motionless,  in  a  chair. 

When  it  was  near  upon  midnight,  Tante 
Cat'rinette  arose,  and  looked  cautiously,  very 
cautiously,  out  of  the  door.  Her  house  lay  in 
the  line  of  deep  shadow  that  extended  along 
the  street.  The  other  side  was  bathed  in  the 
pale  light  of  the  declining  moon.  The  night 
was  agreeably  mild,  profoundly  still,  but 
pregnant  with  the  subtle  quivering  life  of  early 
spring.  The  earth  seemed  asleep  and  breath- 
ing,— a  scent-laden  breath  that  blew  in  soft 
puffs  against  Tante  Cat'rinette's  face  as  she 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  377 

emerged  from  the  house.  She  closed  and 
locked  her  door  noiselessly;  then  she  crept 
slowly  away,  treading  softly,  stealthily  as  a 
cat,  in  the  deep  shadow. 

There  were  but  few  people  abroad  at  that 
hour.  Once  she  ran  upon  a  gay  party  of  la- 
dies and  gentlemen  who  had  been  spending 
the  evening  over  cards  and  anisette.  They 
did  not  notice  Tante  Cat'rinette  almost  effac- 
ing herself  against  the  black  wall  of  the  ca- 
thedral. She  breathed  freely  and  ventured 
from  her  retreat  only  when  they  had  disap- 
peared from  view.  Once  a  man  saw  her  quite 
plainly,  as  she  darted  across  a  narrow  strip  of 
moonlight.  But  Tante  Cat'rinette  need  not 
have  gasped  with  fright  as  she  did.  He  was 
too  drunk  to  know  if  she  were  a  thing  of  flesh, 
or  only  one  of  the  fantastic,  maddening  shad- 
ows that  the  moon  was  casting  across  his  path 
to  bewilder  him.  When  she  reached  the  out- 
skirts of  the  town,  and  had  to  cross  the  broad 
piece  of  open  country  which  stretched  out  to- 
ward the  pine  wood,  an  almost  paralyzing  ter- 
ror came  over  her.  But  she  crouched  low, 
and  hurried  through  the  marsh  and  weeds, 
avoiding  the  open  road.    She  could  have  been 


378  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

mistaken  for  one  of  the  beasts  browsing  there 
where  she  passed. 

But  once  in  the  Grand  Ecore  road  that  lay 
through  the  pine  wood,  she  felt  secure  and 
free  to  move  as  she  pleased.  Tante  Cat'rinette 
straightened  herself,  stiffened  herself  in  fact, 
and  unconsciously  assuming  the  attitude  of  the 
professional  sprinter,  she  sped  rapidly  beneath 
the  Gothic  interlacing  branches  of  the  pines. 
She  talked  constantly  to  herself  as  she  went, 
and  to  the  animate  and  inanimate  objects 
around  her.  But  her  speech,  far  from  intelli- 
gent, was  hardly  intelligible. 

She  addressed  herself  to  the  moon,  which 
she  apostrophized  as  an  impertinent  busybody 
spying  upon  her  actions.  She  pictured  all 
manner  of  troublesome  animals,  snakes,  rab- 
bits, frogs,  pursuing  her,  but  she  defied  them 
to  catch  Cat'rinette,  who  was  hurrying  toward 
Miss  Kitty.  "Pa  capab  trape  Cat'rinette,  vou- 
zot;  mo  pe  couri  vite  cote  Miss  Kitty."  She 
called  up  to  a  mocking-bird  warbling  upon  a 
lofty  limb  of  a  pine  tree,  asking  why  it  cried 
out  so,  and  threatening  to  secure  it  and  put 
it  into  a  cage.  "Ca  to  pe  crie  comme  9a,  ti 
celera?     Arete,      mo    trape    zozos    la,    mo 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  379 

mete  li  dan  ain  bon  lacage."  Indeed, 
Tante  Cat'rinette  seemed  on  very  familiar 
terms  with  the  night,  with  the  forest,  and  with 
all  the  flying,  creeping,  crawling  things  that 
inhabit  it.  At  the  speed  with  which  she  trav- 
eled she  soon  had  covered  the  few  miles  of 
wooded  road,  and  before  long  had  reached  her 
destination. 

The  sleeping-room  of  Miss  Kitty  opened 
upon  the  long  outside  gallery,  as  did  all  the 
rooms  of  the  unpretentious  frame  house  which 
was  her  home.  The  place  could  hardly  be 
called  a  plantation;  it  was  too  small  for  that. 
Nevertheless  Raymond  was  trying  to  plant; 
trying  to  teach  school  between  times,  in  the 
end  room;  and  sometimes,  when  he  found 
himself  in  a  tight  place,  trying  to  clerk  for 
Mr.  Jacobs  over  in  Campte,  across  Red  River. 

Tante  Cat'rinette  mounted  the  creaking 
steps,  crossed  the  gallery,  and  entered  Miss 
Kitty's  room  as  though  she  were  returning  to 
it  after  a  few  moments'  absence.  There  was 
a  lamp  burning  dimly  upon  the  high  mantel- 
piece. Raymond  had  evidently  not  been  to 
bed;  he  was  in  shirt  sleeves,  rocking  the  ba- 
by's cradle.    It  was  the  same  mahogany  era- 


380  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

die  wnich  had  held  Miss  Kitty  thirty-five 
years  before,  when  Tante  Cat'rinette  had 
rocked  it.  The  cradle  had  been  bought  then 
to  match  the  bed, — that  big,  beautiful  bed  on 
which  Miss  Kitty  lay  now  in  a  restless  half 
slumber.  There  was  a  fine  French  clock  on 
the  mantel,  still  telling  the  hours  as  it  had  told 
them  years  ago.  But  there  were  no  carpets  or 
rugs  on  the  floors.  There  was  no  servant  in 
the  house. 

Raymond  uttered  an  exclamation  of  amaze- 
ment when  he  saw  Tante  Cat'rinette  enter. 

"How  you  do,  Miche  Raymond?"  she  said, 
quietly.  "I  yeard  Miss  Kitty  been  sick;  Eu- 
sebe  tell  me  dat  dis  mo'nin'." 

She  moved  toward  the  bed  as  lightly  as 
though  shod  with  velvet,  and  seated  herself 
there.  Miss  Kitty's  hand  lay  outside  the 
coverlid;  a  shapely  hand,  which  her  few  days 
of  illness  and  rest  had  not  yet  softened.  The 
negress  laid  her  own  black  hand  upon  it.  At 
the  touch  Miss  Kitty  instinctively  turned  her 
palm  upward. 

"It's  Tante  Cat'rinette!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  note  of  satisfaction  in  her  feeble  voice. 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  381 

"Wen  did  you  come,  Tante  Cat'rinette?  They 
all  said  you  wouldn'  come." 

"I'm  goin'  come  ev'y  night,  cher  coeur,  ev'y 
night  tell  you  be  well.  Tante  Cat'rinette 
can't  come  daytime  no  mo'." 

"Raymond  tole  me  about  it.  They  doin' 
you  mighty  mean  in  town,  Tante  Cat'rinette." 

"Nev'  mine,  ti  chou.  I  know  how  take  care 
dat  w'at  Vieumaite  gi'  me.  You  go  sleep  now. 
Cat'rinette  goin'  set  yere  an'  mine  you.  She 
goin'  make  you  well  like  she  all  time  do.  We 
don'  wan'  no  celera  doctor.  We  drive  'em 
out  wid  a  stick,  dey  come  roun'  yere." 

Miss  Kitty  was  soon  sleeping  more  restfully 
than  she  had  done  since  her  illness  began. 
Raymond  had  finally  succeeded  in  quieting 
the  baby,  and  he  tiptoed  into  the  adjoining 
room,  where  the  other  children  lay,  to  snatch 
a  few  hours  of  much-needed  rest  for  himself. 
Cat'rinette  sat  faithfully  beside  her  charge, 
administering  at  intervals  to  the  sick  woman's 
wants. 

But  the  thought  of  regaining  her  home  be- 
fore daybreak,  and  of  the  urgent  necessity  for 
doing  so,  did  not  leave  Tante  Cat'rinette's 
mind  for  an  instant. 


382  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

In  the  profound  darkness,  the  deep  stillness 
of  the  night  that  comes  before  dawn,  she  was 
walking  again  through  the  woods,  on  her  way 
back  to  town. 

The  mocking-birds  were  asleep,  and  so 
were  the  frogs  and  the  snakes;  and  the  moon 
was  gone,  and  so  was  the  breeze.  She  walked 
now  in  utter  silence  but  for  the  heavy  guttural 
breathing  that  accompanied  her  rapid  foot- 
steps. She  walked  with  a  desperate  determi- 
nation along  the  road,  every  foot  of  which 
was  familiar  to  her. 

When  she  at  last  emerged  from  the  woods, 
the  earth  about  her  was  faintly,  very  faintly, 
beinning  to  reveal  itself  in  the  tremulous, 
gray,  uncertain  light  of  approaching  day.  She 
staggered  and  plunged  onward  with  beating 
pulses  quickened  by  fear. 

A  sudden  turn,  and  Tante  Cat'rinette  stood 
facing  the  river.  She  stopped  abruptly,  as  if 
at  command  of  some  unseen  power  that  forced 
her.  For  an  instant  she  pressed  a  black  hand 
against  her  tired,  burning  eyes,  and  stared 
fixedly  ahead  of  her. 

Tante  Cat'rinette  had  always  believed  that 
Paradise  was  up  there  overhead  where  the  sun 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  383 

and  stars  and  moon  are,  and  that  "Vieumaite" 
inhabited  that  region  of  splendor.  She  never 
for  a  moment  doubted  this.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult, perhaps  unsatisfying,  to  explain  why 
Tante  Cat'rinette,  on  that  particular  morning, 
when  a  vision  of  the  rising  day  broke  sud- 
denly upon  her,  should  have  believed  that  she 
stood  in  face  of  a  heavenly  revelation.  But 
why  not,  after  all?  Since  she  talked  so  famil- 
iarly herself  to  the  unseen,  why  should  it  not 
respond  to  her  when  the  time  came? 

Across  the  narrow,  quivering  line  of  water, 
the  delicate  budding  branches  of  young  trees 
were  limned  black  against  the  gold,  orange, 
— what  word  is  there  to  tell  the  color  of  that 
morning  sky!  And  steeped  in  the  splendor  of 
it  hung  one  pale  star;  there  was  not  another 
in  the  whole  heaven. 

Tante  Cat'rinette  stood  with  her  eyes  fixed 
intently  upon  that  star,  which  held  her  like  a 
hypnotic  spell.     She  stammered  breathlessly: 

"Mo  pe  coute,  Vieumaite.  Cat'rinette 
pe  coute."  (I  am  listening,  Vieumaite.  Cat'- 
rinette hears  you.) 

She  stayed  there  motionless  upon  the  brink 
of  the  river  till  the  star  melted  into  the  bright- 
ness of  the  day  and  became  part  of  it. 


384  Tante  Cat'rinette. 

When  Tante  Cat'rinette  entered  Miss  Kit- 
ty's room  for  the  second  time,  the  aspect  of 
things  had  changed  somewhat.  Miss  Kitty- 
was  with  much  difficulty  holding  the  baby 
while  Raymond  mixed  a  saucer  of  food  for 
the  little  one.  Their  oldest  daughter,  a  child 
of  twelve,  had  come  into  the  room  with  an 
apronful  of  chips  from  the  woodpile,  and  was 
striving  to  start  a  fire  on  the  hearth,  to  make 
the  morning  coffee.  The  room  seemed  bare 
and  almost  squalid  in  the  daylight. 

"Well,  yere  Tante  Cat'rinette  come  back," 
she  said,  quietly  announcing  herself. 

They  could  not  well  understand  why  she 
was  back;  but  it  was  good  to  have  her  there, 
and  they  did  not  question. 

She  took  the  baby  from  its  mother,  and, 
seating  herself,  began  to  feed  it  from  the  sau- 
cer which  Raymond  placed  beside  her  on  a 
chair. 

"Yas,"  she  said,  "Cat'rinette  goin'  stay;  dis 
time  she  en't  nev'  goin'  'way  no  mo'." 

Husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other  with 
surprised,  questioning  eyes. 

"Miche  Raymond,"  remarked  the  woman, 
turning  her  head  up  to  him  with  a  certain 


Tante  Cat'rinette.  385 

comical  shrewdness  in  her  glance,  "if  some- 
body want  len'  you  t'ousan'  dolla',  w'at  you 
goin'  say?    Even  if  it's  ole  nigga  'oman?" 

The  man's  face  flushed  with  sudden  emo- 
tion. "I  would  say  that  person  was  our  bes' 
frien',  Tante  Cat'rinette.  An',"  he  added,  with 
a  smile,  "I  would  give  her  a  mortgage  on  the 
place,  of  co'se,  to  secu'  her  f'om  loss." 

"Das  right,"  agreed  the  woman  practically. 
"Den  Cat'rinette  goin'  len'  you  t'ousan' 
dolla'.  Dat  w'at  Vieumaite  give  her,  dat 
b'long  to  her;  don'  b'long  to  nobody  else.  An' 
we  go  yon'a  to  town,  Miche  Raymond,  you 
an'  me.  You  care  me  befo'  Miche  Paxtone. 
I  want  'im  fo'  put  down  in  writin'  befo'  de 
cote  dat  w'at  Cat'rinette  got,  it  fo'  Miss  Kitty 
w'en  I  be  dead." 

Miss  Kitty  was  crying  softly  in  the  depths  of 
her  pillow. 

"I  en't  got  no  head  fo'  all  dat,  me,"  laughed 
Tante  Cat'rinette,  good  humoredly,  as  she 
held  a  spoonful  of  pap  up  to  the  baby's  eager 
lips.  "It's  Vieumaite  tell  me  all  dat  clair  an' 
plain  dis  mo'iim',  w'en  I  comin'  'long  de  Gran' 
Eco'  road." 


A  Respectable  Woman 


A  Respectable  Woman 

MRS.  BARODA  was  a  little  provoked  to 
learn  that  her  husband  expected  his 
friend,  Gouvernail,  up  to  spend  a  week 
or  two  on  the  plantation. 

They  had  entertained  a  good  deal  during 
the  winter;  much  of  the  time  had  also  been 
passed  in  New  Orleans  in  various  forms  of 
mild  dissipation.  She  was  looking  forward  to 
a  period  of  unbroken  rest,  now,  and  undis- 
turbed tete-a-tete  with  her  husband,  when  he 
informed  her  that  Gouvernail  was  coming  up 
to  stay  a  week  or  two. 

This  was  a  man  she  had  heard  much  of  but 
never  seen.  He  had  been  her  husband's  col- 
lege friend;  was  now  a  journalist,  and  in  no 
sense  a  society  man  or  "a  man  about  town," 
which  were,  perhaps,  some  of  the  reasons  she 
had  never  met  him.  But  she  had  unconscious- 
ly formed  an  image  of    him    in    her    mind. 

389 


390         A  Respectable  Woman. 

She  pictured  him  tall,  slim,  cynical;  with  eye- 
glasses, and  his  hands  in  his  pockets;  and 
she  did  not  like  him.  Gouvernail  was  slim 
enough,  but  he  wasn't  very  tall  nor  very  cyn- 
ical; neither  did  he  wear  eye-glasses  nor  carry 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  And  she  rather  liked 
him  when  he  first  presented  himself. 

But  why  she  liked  him  she  could  not  ex- 
plain satisfactorily  to  herself  when  she  partly 
attempted  to  do  so.  She  could  discover  in 
him  none  of  those  brilliant  and  promising 
traits  which  Gaston,  her  husband,  had  often 
assured  her  that  he  possessed.  On  the  con- 
trary, he  sat  rather  mute  and  receptive  before 
her  chatty  eagerness  to  make  him  feel  at  home 
and  in  face  of  Gaston's  frank  and  wordy  hos- 
pitality. His  manner  was  as  courteous  to- 
ward her  as  the  most  exacting  woman  could 
require;  but  he  made  no  direct  appeal  to  her 
approval  or  even  esteem. 

Once  settled  at  the  plantation  he  seemed  to 
like  to  sit  upon  the  wide  portico  in  the  shade 
of  one  of  the  big  Corinthian  pillars,  smoking 
his  cigar  lazily  and  listening  attentively  to 
Gaston's  experience  as  a  sugar  planter. 

"This  is  what  I  call  living,"  he  would  utter 


A  Respectable  Woman.         391 

with  deep  satisfaction,  as  the  air  that  swept 
across  the  sugar  field  caressed  him  with  its 
warm  and  scented  velvety  touch.  It  pleased 
him  also  to  get  on  familiar  terms  with  the  big 
dogs  that  came  about  him,  rubbing  themselves 
sociably  against  his  legs.  He  did  not  care  to 
fish,  and  displayed  no  eagerness  to  go  out  and 
kill  grosbecs  when  Gaston  proposed  doing 
so. 

Gouvernairs  personality  puzzled  Mrs.  Ba- 
roda,  but  she  liked  him.  Indeed,  he  was  a 
lovable,  inoffensive  fellow.  After  a  few  days, 
when  she  could  understand  him  no  better  than 
at  first,  she  gave  over  being  puzzled  and  re- 
mained piqued.  In  this  mood  she  left  her 
husband  and  her  guest,  for  the  most  part, 
alone  together.  Then  finding  that  Gouvernail 
took  no  manner  of  exception  to  her  action,  she 
imposed  her  society  upon  him,  accompanying 
him  in  his  idle  strolls  to  the  mill  and  walks 
along  the  batture.  She  persistently  sought 
to  penetrate  the  reserve  in  which  he  had  un- 
consciously enveloped  himself. 

"When  is  he  going — your  friend?"  she  one 
day  asked  her  husband.  "For  my  part,  he 
tires  me  frightfully." 


392         A  Respectable  Woman. 

"Not  for  a  week  yet,  dear.  I  can't  under- 
stand; he  gives  you  no  trouble." 

"No.  I  should  like  him  better  if  he  did; 
if  he  were  more  like  others,  and  I  had  to  plan 
somewhat  for  his  comfort  and  enjoyment/' 

Gaston  took  his  wife's  pretty  face  between 
his  hands  and  looked  tenderly  and  laughingly 
into  her  troubled  eyes.  They  were  making  a 
bit  of  toilet  sociably  together  in  Mrs.  Baroda's 
dressing-room. 

"You  are  full  of  surprises,  ma  belle,"  he 
said  to  her.  "Even  I  can  never  count  upon 
how  you  are  going  to  act  under  given  condi- 
tions." He  kissed  her  and  turned  to  fasten 
his  cravat  before  the  mirror. 

"Here  you  are,"  he  went  on,  "taking  poor 
Gouvernail  seriously  and  making  a  commo- 
tion over  him,  the  last  thing  he  would  desire 
or  expect." 

"Commotion!"  she  hotly  resented.  "Non- 
sense! How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  Com- 
motion, indeed!  But,  you  know,  you  said  he 
was  clever." 

"So  he  is.  But  the  poor  fellow  is  run  down 
by  overwork  now.  That's  why  I  asked  him 
here  to  take  a  rest." 


A  Respectable  Woman.  393 

"You  used  to  say  he  was  a  man  of  ideas," 
she  retorted,  unconciliated.  "I  expected  him 
to  be  interesting,  at  least.  I'm  going  to  the 
city  in  the  morning  to  have  my  spring  gowns 
fitted.  Let  me  know  when  Mr.  Gouvernail 
is  gone;  I  shall  be  at  my  Aunt  Octavie's." 

That  night  she  went  and  sat  alone  upon  a 
bench  that  stood  beneath  a  live  oak  tree  at 
the  edge  of  the  gravel  walk. 

She  had  never  known  her  thoughts  or  her 
intentions  to  be  so  confused.  She  could 
gather  nothing  from  them  but  the  feeling  of 
a  distinct  necessity  to  quit  her  home  in  the 
morning. 

Mrs.  Baroda  heard  footsteps  crunching  the 
gravel;  but  could  discern  in  the  darkness  only 
the  approaching  red  point  of  a  lighted  cigar. 
She  knew  it  was  Gouvernail,  for  her  husband 
did  not  smoke.  She  hoped  to  remain  un- 
noticed, but  her  white  gown  revealed  her  to 
him.  He  threw  away  his  cigar  and  seated 
himself  upon  the  bench  beside  her;  without  a 
suspicion  that  she  might  object  to  his  pres- 
ence. 

"Your  husband  told  me  to  bring  this  to 
you,  Mrs.  Baroda,"  he  said,  handing    her    a 


394         A  Respectable  Woman. 

filmy,  white  scarf  with  which  she  sometimes 
enveloped  her  head  and  shoulders.  She  ac- 
cepted the  scarf  from  him  with  a  murmur  of 
thanks,  and  let  it  lie  in  her  lap. 

He  made  some  commonplace  observation 
upon  the  baneful  effect  of  the  night  air  at  that 
season.  Then  as  his  gaze  reached  out  into 
the  darkness,  he  murmured,  half  to  himself: 

"  '  Night  of  south  winds — night  of  the  large  few 
stars! 
Still  nodding  night '  " 

She  made  no  reply  to  this  apostrophe  to  the 
night,  which  indeed,  was  not  addressed  to  her. 

Gouvernail  was  in  no  sense  a  diffident  man, 
for  he  was  not  a  self-conscious  one.  His  pe- 
riods of  reserve  were  not  constitutional,  but 
the  result  of  moods.  Sitting  there  beside  Mrs. 
Baroda,  his  silence  melted  for  the  time. 

He  talked  freely  and  intimately  in  a  low, 
hesitating  drawl  that  was  not  unpleasant  to 
hear.  He  talked  of  the  old  college  days  when 
he  and  Gaston  had  been  a  good  deal  to  each 
other;  of  the  days  of  keen  and  blind  ambitions 
and  large  intentions.  Now  there  was  left  with 
him,  at  least,  a  philosophic  acquiescence  to 
the  existing  order — only  a  desire  to  be  per- 


A  Respectable  Woman.         395 

mitted  to  exist,  with  now  and  then  a  little 
whiff  of  genuine  life,  such  as  he  was  breathing 
now. 

Her  mind  only  vaguely  grasped  what  he 
was  saying.  Her  physical  being  was  for  the 
moment  predominant.  She  was  not  thinking 
of  his  words,  only  drinking  in  the  tones  of  his 
voice.  She  wanted  to  reach  out  her  hand  in 
the  darkness  and  touch  him  with  the  sensitive 
tips  of  her  ringers  upon  the  face  or  the  lips. 
She  wanted  to  draw  close  to  him  and  whisper 
against  his  cheek — she  did  not  care  what — 
as  she  might  have  done  if  she  had  not  been  a 
respectable  woman. 

The  stronger  the  impulse  grew  to  bring 
herself  near  him,  the  further,  in  fact,  did  she 
draw  away  from  him.  As  soon  as  she  could 
do  so  without  an  appearance  of  too  great  rude- 
ness, she  rose  and  left  him  there  alone. 

Before  she  reached  the  house,  Gouvernail 
had  lighted  a  fresh  cigar  and  ended  his  apos- 
trophe to  the  night. 

Mrs.  Baroda  was  greatly  tempted  that  night 
to  tell  her  husband — who  was  also  her  friend 
— of  this  folly  that  had  seized  her.  But  she 
did  not  yield  to  the  temptation.    Beside  being 


396         A  Respectable  Woman. 

a  respectable  woman  she  was  a  very  sensible 
one;  and  she  knew  there  are  some  battles  in 
life  which  a  human  being  must  fight  alone. 

When  Gaston  arose  in  the  morning,  his  wife 
had  already  departed.  She  had  taken  an  early 
morning  train  to  the  city.  She  did  not  return 
till  Gouvernail  was  gone  from  under  her  roof. 

There  was  some  talk  of  having  him  back 
during  the  summer  that  followed.  That  is, 
Gaston  greatly  desired  it;  but  this  desire  yield- 
ed to  his  wife's  strenuous  opposition. 

However,  before  the  year  ended,  she  pro- 
posed, wholly  from  herself,  to  have  Gouver- 
nail visit  them  again.  Her  husband  was  sur- 
prised and  delighted  with  the  suggestion  com- 
ing from  her. 

"I  am  glad,  chere  amie,  to  know  that  you 
have  finally  overcome  your  dislike  for  him; 
truly  he  did  not  deserve  it." 

"Oh,"  she  told  him,  laughingly,  after  pres- 
sing a  long,  tender  kiss  upon  his  lips,  "I  have 
overcome  everything!  you  will  see.  This  time 
I  shall  be  very  nice  to  him." 


Ripe  Figs 


Ripe  Figs 


MAMAN-NAINAINE  said  that  when  the 
figs  were  ripe  Babette  might  go  to  visit 
her  cousins  down  on  the  Bayou-La- 
fourche  where  the  sugar  cane  grows.  Not  that 
the  ripening  of  figs  had  the  least  thing  to  do 
with  it,  but  that  is  the  way  Maman-Nainaine 
was. 

It  seemed  to  Babette  a  very  long  time  to 
wait;  for  the  leaves  upon  the  trees  were  ten- 
der yet,  and  the  figs  were  like  little  hard, 
green  marbles. 

But  warm  rains  came  along  and  plenty  of 
strong  sunshine,  and  though  Maman-Nai- 
aine  was  as  patient  as  the  statue  of  la  Madone, 
and  Babette  as  restless  as  a  humming-bird, 
the  first  thing  they  both  knew  it  was  hot  sum- 
mer-time. Every  day  Babette  danced  out  to 
where  the  fig-trees  were  in  a  long  line  against 
the  fence.    She  walked  slowly  beneath  them, 


4-00  Ripe  Figs. 

carefully  peering  between  the  gnarled,  spread- 
ing branches.  But  each  time  she  came  discon- 
solate away  again.  What  she  saw  there  finally 
was  something  that  made  her  sing  and  dance 
the  whole  long  day. 

When  Maman-Nainaine  sat  down  in  her 
stately  way  to  breakfast,  the  following  morn- 
ing, her  muslin  cap  standing  like  an  aureole 
about  her  white,  placid  face,  Babette  ap- 
proached. She  bore  a  dainty  porcelain  plat- 
ter, which  she  set  down  before  her  godmother. 
It  contained  a  dozen  purple  figs,  fringed 
around  with  their  rich,  green  leaves. 

"Ah,"  said  Maman-Nainaine,  arching  her 
eyebrows,  "how  early  the  figs  have  ripened 
this  year!" 

"Oh,"  said  Babette,  "I  think  they  have  ri- 
pened very  late." 

"Babette,"  continued  Maman-Nainaine,  as 
she  peeled  the  very  plumpest  figs  with  her 
pointed  silver  fruit-knife,  "you  will  carry  my 
love  to  them  all  down  on  Bayou-Lafourche. 
And  tell  your  Tante  Frosine  I  shall  look  for 
her  at  Toussaint — when  the  chrysanthemums 
are  in  bloom." 


Ozeme's  Holiday 


Ozeme's  Holiday 

OZEME  often  wondered  why  there  was 
not  a  special  dispensation  of  providence 
to  do  away  with  the  necessity  for  work. 
There  seemed  to  him  so  much  created  for 
man's  enjoyment  in  this  world,  and  so  little 
time  and  opportunity  to  profit  by  it.  To  sit 
and  do  nothing  but  breathe  was  a 
pleasure  to  Ozeme;  but  to  sit  in  the  company 
of  a  few  choice  companions,  including  a 
sprinkling  of  ladies,  was  even  a  greater  de- 
light; and  the  joy  which  a  day's  hunting  or 
fishing  or  picnicking  afforded  him  is  hardly  to 
be  described.  Yet  he  was  by  no  means  indo- 
lent. He  worked  faithfully  on  the  plantation 
the  whole  year  long,  in  a  sort  of  methodical 
way;  but  when  the  time  came  around  for  his 
annual  week's  holiday,  there  was  no  holding 
him  back.  It  was  often  decidedly  inconveni- 
ent for  the  planter  that  Ozeme  usually  chose 

403 


404  Ozeme's  Holiday. 

to  take  his  holiday  during  some  very  busy 
season  of  the  year. 

He  started  out  one  morning  in  the  begin- 
ning of  October.  He  had  borrowed  Mr.  La- 
balliere's  buckboard  and  Padue's  old  gray 
mare,  and  a  harness  from  the  negro  Severin. 
He  wore  a  light  blue  suit  which  had  been  sent 
all  the  way  from  St.  Louis,  and  which  had 
cost  him  ten  dollars;  he  had  paid  almost  as 
much  again  for  his  boots;  and  his  hat  was  a 
broad-rimmed  gray  felt  which  he  had  no  cause 
to  be  ashamed  of.  When  Ozeme  went 
"broading,"  he  dressed — well,  regardless  of 
cost.  His  eyes  were  blue  and  mild;  his  hair 
was  light,  and  he  wore  it  rather  long;  he  was 
clean  shaven,  and  really  did  not  look  his 
thirty-five  years. 

Ozeme  had  laid  his  plans  weeks  beforehand. 
He  was  going  visiting  along  Cane  River;  the 
mere  contemplation  filled  him  with  pleasure. 
He  counted  upon  reaching  Fedeaus'  about 
noon,  and  he  would  stop  and  dine  there.  Per- 
haps they  would  ask  him  to  stay  all  night.  He 
really  did  not  hold  to  staying  all  night,  and 
was  not  decided  to  accept  if  they  did  ask  him. 
There  were  only  the  two  old  people,  and  he 


Ozeme/ s  Holiday.  405 

rather  fancied  the  notion  of  pushing  on  to 
Beltrans',  where  he  would  stay  a  night,  or 
even  two,  if  urged.  He  was  quite  sure  that 
there  would  be  something  agreeable  going  on 
at  Beltrans',  with  all  those  young  people — 
perhaps  a  fish-fry,  or  possibly  a  ball! 

Of  course  he  would  have  to  give  a  day  to 
Tante  Sophie  and  another  to  Cousine  Vic- 
toire;  but  none  to  the  St.  Annes  unless  en- 
treated— after  St.  Anne  reproaching  him  last 
year  with  being  a  faineant  for  broading  at 
such  a  season!  At  Cloutierville,  where  he 
would  linger  as  long  as  possible,  he  meant  to 
turn  and  retrace  his  course,  zigzagging  back 
and  forth  across  Cane  River  so  as  to  take  in 
the  Duplans,  the  Velcours,  and  others  that 
he  could  not  at  the  moment  recall.  A  week 
seemed  to  Ozeme  a  very,  very  little  while  in 
which  to  crowd  so  much  pleasure. 

There  were  steam-gins  at  work;  he  could 
hear  them  whistling  far  and  near.  On  both 
sides  of  the  river  the  fields  were  white  with 
cotton,  and  everybody  in  the  world  seemed 
busy  but  Ozeme.  This  reflection  did  not  dis- 
tress or  disturb  him  in  the  least;  he  pursued 
his  way  at  peace  with  himself  and  his  sur- 
roundings. 


406  Ozeme's  Holiday. 

At  Lamerie's  cross-roads  store,  where  he 
stopped  to  buy  a  cigar,  he  learned  that  there 
was  no  use  heading  for  Fedeaus',  as  the  two 
old  people  had  gone  to  town  for  a  lengthy- 
visit,  and  the  house  was  locked  up.  It  was  at 
Fedeaus'  that  Ozeme  had  intended  to  dine. 

He  sat  in  the  buckboard,  given  up  to  a 
moment  or  two  of  reflection.  The  result  was 
that  he  turned  away  from  the  river,  and  en- 
tered the  road  that  led  between  two  fields  back 
to  the  woods  and  into  the  heart  of  the  country. 
He  had  determined  upon  taking  a  short  cut 
to  the  Beltrans'  plantation,  and  on  the  way  he 
meant  to  keep  an  eye  open  for  old  Aunt  Til- 
ery's cabin,  which  he  knew  lay  in  some  remote 
part  of  this  cut-off.  He  remembered  that 
Aunt  Tildy  could  cook  an  excellent  meal  if 
she  had  the  material  at  hand.  He  would  in- 
duce her  to  fry  him  a  chicken,  drip  a  cup  of 
coffee,  and  turn  him  out  a  pone  of  corn-bread, 
which  he  thought  would  be  sumptuous 
enough  fare  for  the  occasion. 

Aunt  Tildy  dwelt  in  the  not  unusual  log 
cabin,  of  one  room,  with  its  chimney  of  mud 
and  stone,  and  its  shallow  gallery  formed  by 
the  jutting  of  the  roof.     In  close  proximity  to 


Ozeme's  Holiday.  407 

the  cabin  was  a  small  cotton-field,  which  from 
a  long  distance  looked  like  a  field  of  snow. 
The  cotton  was  bursting  and  overflowing 
foam-like  from  bolls  on  the  drying  stalk.  On 
the  lower  branches  it  was  hanging  ragged  and 
tattered,  and  much  of  it  had  already  fallen  to 
the  ground.  There  were  a  few  chinaberry-trees 
in  the  yard  before  the  hut,  and  under  one  of 
them  an  ancient  and  rusty-looking  mule  was 
eating  corn  from  a  wood  trough.  Some  com- 
mon little  Creole  chickens  were  scratching 
about  the  mule's  feet  and  snatching  at  the 
grains  of  corn  that  occasionally  fell  from  the 
trough. 

Aunt  Tildy  was  hobbling  across  the  yard 
when  Ozeme  drew  up  before  the  gate.  One 
hand  was  confined  in  a  sling;  in  the  other  she 
carried  a  tin  pan,  which  she  let  fall  noisily 
to  the  ground  when  she  recognized  him.  She 
was  broad,  black,  and  misshapen,  with  her 
body  bent  forward  almost  at  an  acute  angle. 
She  wore  a  blue  cottonade  of  large  plaids,  and 
a  bandana  awkwardly  twisted  around  her 
head. 

"Good  God  A'mighty,  man!  Whar  you 
come  from?"  was  her  startled  exclamation  at 
beholding  him. 


408  Ozeme's  Holiday. 

"F'om  home,  Aunt  Tildy ;  w'ere  else  do  you 
expec'?"  replied  Ozeme,  dismounting  com- 
posedly. 

He  had  not  seen  the  old  woman  for  several 
years — since  she  was  cooking  in  town  for  the 
family  with  which  he  boarded  at  the  time 
She  had  washed  and  ironed  for  him,  atro- 
ciously, it  is  true,  but  her  intentions  were 
beyond  reproach  if  her  washing  was  not.  She 
had  also  been  clumsily  attentive  to  him  dur- 
ing a  spell  of  illness.  He  had  paid  her  with 
an  occasional  bandana,  a  calico  dress,  or  a 
checked  apron,  and  they  had  always  consid- 
ered the  account  between  themselves  square, 
with  no  sentimental  feeling  of  gratitude  re- 
maining on  either  side. 

"I  like  to  know,"  remarked  Ozeme,  as  he 
took  the  gray  mare  from  the  shafts,  and  led 
her  up  to  the  trough  where  the  mule  was — 
"I  like  to  know  w'at  you  mean  by  makin'  a 
crop  like  that  an'  then  lettin'  it  go  to  was'e? 
Who  you  reckon's  goin'  to  pick  that  cotton? 
You  think  maybe  the  angels  goin'  to  come 
down  an'  pick  it  fo'  you,  an'  gin  it  an'  press 
it,  an'  then  give  you  ten  cents  a  poun'  fo'  it, 
hem?" 


Ozeme' s  Holiday.  409 

"Ei  de  Lord  don'  pick  it,  I  don'  know  who 
gwine  pick  it,  Mista  Ozeme.  I  tell  you,  me 
an'  Sandy  we  wuk  dat  crap  day  in  an'  day 
out;  it's  him  done  de  mos'  of  it." 

"Sandy?    That  little—" 

"He  am'  dat  li'le  Sandy  no  mo'  w'at  you 
rec'lec's;  he  'mos'  a  man,  an'  he  wuk  like  a 
man  now.  He  wuk  mo'  'an  fittin'  fo'  his 
strenk,  an'  now  he  layin'  in  dah  sick — God 
A'mighty  knows  how  sick.  An'  me  wid  a 
risin'  twell  I  bleeged  to  walk  de  flo'  o'  nights, 
an'  don'  know  ef  I  ain'  gwine  to  lose  de  han' 
atter  all." 

"W'y,  in  the  name  o'  conscience,  you  don! 
hire  somebody  to  pick?" 

"Whar  I  got  money  to  hire?  An'  you 
knows  well  as  me  ev'y  chick  an'  chile  is  pick- 
in'  roun'  on  de  plantations  an'  gittin'  good 
pay." 

The  whole  outlook  appeared  to  Ozeme  very 
depressing,  and  even  menacing,  to  his  per- 
sonal comfort  and  peace  of  mind.  He  fore- 
saw no  prospect  of  dinner  unless  he  should 
cook  it  himself.  And  there  was  that  Sandy 
— he  remembered  well  the  little  scamp  of 
eight,  always  at  his  grandmother's  heels  when 


410  Ozeme' s  Holiday. 

she  was  cooking  or  washing.  Of  course  he 
would  have  to  go  in  and  look  at  the  boy,  and 
no  doubt  dive  into  his  traveling-bag  for  qui- 
nine, without  which  he  never  traveled. 

Sandy  was  indeed  very  ill,  consumed  with 
fever.  He  lay  on  a  cot  covered  up  with  a 
faded  patchwork  quilt.  His  eyes  were  half 
closed,  and  he  was  muttering  and  rambling  on 
about  hoeing  and  bedding  and  cleaning  and 
thinning  out  the  cotton;  he  was  hauling  it  to 
the  gin,  wrangling  about  weight  and  bagging 
and  ties  and  the  price  offered  per  pound. 
That  bale  or  two  of  cotton  had  not  only  sent 
Sandy  to  bed,  but  had  pursued  him  there, 
holding  him  through  his  fevered  dreams,  and 
threatening  to  end  him.  Ozeme  would  never 
have  known  the  black  boy,  he  was  so  tall,  so 
thin,  and  seemingly  so  wasted,  lying  there  in 
bed. 

"See  yere,  Aunt  Tildy,"  said  Ozeme,  after 
he  had,  as  was  usual  with  him  when  in  doubt, 
abandoned  himself  to  a  little  reflection;  "be- 
tween us — you  an'  me — we  got  to  manage  to 
kill  an'  cook  one  o'  those  chickens  I  see 
scratchin'  out  yonda,  fo'  I'm  jus'  about 
starved.     I  reckon  you  ain't  got  any  quinine 


Ozeme  s  Holiday.  41 1 

in  the  house?  No;  I  didn't  suppose  an  instant 
you  had.  Well,  I'm  goin'  to  give  Sandy  a 
good  dose  o'  quinine  to-night,  an'  I'm  goin' 
stay  an'  see  how  that'll  work  on  'im.  But 
sun-up,  min'  you,  I  mus'  get  out  o'  yere." 

Ozeme  had  spent  more  comfortable  nights 
than  the  one  passed  in  Aunt  Tildy's  bed, 
which  she  considerately  abandoned  to  him. 

In  the  morning  Sandy's  fever  was  somewhat 
abated,  but  had  not  taken  a  decided  enough 
turn  to  justify  Ozeme  in  quitting  him  before 
noon,  unless  he  was  willing  "to  feel  like  a 
dog,"  as  he  told  himself.  He  appeared  be- 
fore Aunt  Tildy  stripped  to  the  undershirt, 
and  wearing  his  second-best  pair  of  trousers. 

"That's  a  nice  pickle  o'  fish  you  got  me  in, 
or  woman.  I  guarantee,  nex'  time  I  go 
abroad,  'tain't  me  that'll  take  any  cut-off. 
W'ere's  that  cotton-basket  an'  cotton-sack  o' 
yo's?" 

"I  knowed  it!"  chanted  Aunt  Tildy— "I 
knowed  de  Lord  war  gwine  sen'  somebody  to 
holp  me  out.  He  war  n'  gwine  let  de  crap 
was'e  atter  he  give  Sandy  an*  me  de  strenk 
to  make  hit.  De  Lord  gwine  shove  you  'long 
de  row,  Mista  Ozeme.     De  Lord  gwine  give 


412  Ozeme' s  Holiday. 

you  plenty  mo'  fingers  an'  han's  to  pick  dat 
cotton  nimble  an'  clean." 

"Neva  you  min'  w'at  the  Lord's  goin'  to 
do;  go  get  me  that  cotton-sack.  An'  you  put 
that  poultice  like  I  tol'  you  on  yo'  han',  an' 
set  down  there  an'  watch  Sandy.  It  looks  like 
you  are  'bout  as  helpless  as  a'  ol'  cow  tangled 
up  in  a  potato-vine." 

Ozeme  had  not  picked  cotton  for  many 
years,  and  he  took  to  it  a  little  awkwardly  at 
first;  but  by  the  time  he  had  reached  the  end 
of  the  first  row  the  old  dexterity  of  youth 
had  come  back  to  his  hands,  which  flew  rapid- 
ly back  and  forth  with  the  motion  of  a  weav- 
er's shuttle;  and  his  ten  fingers  became  really 
nimble  in  clutching  the  cotton  from  its  dry 
shell.  By  noon  he  had  gathered  about  fifty 
pounds.  Sandy  was  not  then  quite  so  well  as 
he  had  promised  to  be,  and  Ozeme  concluded 
to  stay  that  day  and  one  more  night.  If  the 
boy  were  no  better  in  the  morning,  he  would 
go  off  in  search  of  a  doctor  for  him,  and  he 
himself  would  continue  on  down  to  Tante 
Sophie's;  the  Beltrans'  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion now. 


Ozeme's  Holiday.  413 

Sandy  hardly  needed  a  doctor  in  the  morn- 
ing. Ozeme's  doctoring  was  beginning  to  tell 
favorably;  but  he  would  have  considered  it 
criminal  indifference  and  negligence  to  go 
away  and  leave  the  boy  to  Aunt  Tildy's  awk- 
ward ministrations  just  at  the  critical  mo- 
ment when  there  was  a  turn  for  the  better; 
so  he  stayed  that  day  out,  and  picked  his 
hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 

On  the  third  day  it  looked  like  rain,  and  a 
heavy  rain  just  then  would  mean  a  heavy  loss 
to  Aunt  Tildy  and  Sandy,  and  Ozeme  again 
went  to  the  field,  this  time  urging  Aunt  Tildy 
with  him  to  do  what  she  might  with  her  one 
good  hand. 

"Aunt  Tildy,"  called  out  Ozeme  to  the  bent 
old  woman  moving  ahead  of  him  between  the 
white  rows  of  cotton,  "if  the  Lord  gets  me 
safe  out  o'  this  ditch,  't  ain't  to-morro'  I'll 
fall  in  anotha  with  my  eyes  open,  I  bet  you." 

"Keep  along,  Mista  Ozeme;  don'  grumble, 
don'  stumble;  de  Lord's  a-watchin'  you.  Look 
at  yo'  Aunt  Tildy;  she  doin'  mo'  wid  her  one 
han'  'an  you  doin'  wid  yo'  two,  man.  Keep 
right  along,  honey.  Watch  dat  cotton  how 
it  fallin'  in  yo'  Aunt  Tildy's  bag." 


414  Ozeme's  Holiday. 

"I  am  watchin'  you,  ol'  woman;  you  don' 
fool  me.  You  got  to  work  that  han'  o'  yo's 
spryer  than  you  doin',  or  I'll  take  the  raw- 
hide. You  done  fo'got  w'at  the  rawhide  tas'e 
like,  I  reckon" — a  reminder  which  amused 
Aunt  Tildy  so  powerfully  that  her  big  negro- 
laugh  resounded  over  the  whole  cotton-patch, 
and  even  caused  Sandy,  who  heard  it,  to  turn 
in  his  bed. 

The  weather  was  still  threatening  on  the 
succeeding  day,  and  a  sort  of  dogged  deter- 
mination or  characteristic  desire  to  see  his 
undertakings  carried  to  a  satisfactory  com- 
pletion urged  Ozeme  to  continue  his  efforts 
to  drag  Aunt  Tildy  out  of  the  mire  into  which 
circumstances  seemed  to  have  thrust  her. 

One  night  the  rain  did  come,  and  began  to 
beat  softly  on  the  roof  of  the  old  cabin.  Sandy 
opened  his  eyes,  which  were  no  longer  bril- 
liant with  the  fever  flame.  "Granny,"  he  whis- 
pered, "de  rain!  Des  listen,  granny;  de  rain 
a-comin',  an'  I  ain'  pick  dat  cotton  yit.  W'at 
time  it  is?     Gi'  me  my  pants — I  got  to  go — " 

"You  lay  whar  you  is,  chile  alive.  Dat  cot- 
ton put  aside  clean  and  dry.  Me  an'  de  Lord 
an'  Mista  Ozeme  done  pick  dat  cotton." 


Ozeme's  Holiday.  415 

Ozeme  drove  away  in  the  morning  looking 
quite  as  spick  and  span  as  the  day  he  left 
home  in  his  blue  suit  and  his  light  felt  drawn 
a  little  over  his  eyes. 

''You  want  to  take  care  o'  that  boy,"  he 
instructed  Aunt  Tildy  at  parting,  "an'  get  'im 
on  his  feet.  An',  let  me  tell  you,  the  nex' 
time  I  start  out  to  broad,  if  you  see  me  passin' 
in  this  yere  cut-off,  put  on  yo'  specs  an'  look 
at  me  good,  because  it  won't  be  me;  it'll  be 
my  ghos',  ol'  woman." 

Indeed,  Ozeme,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
felt  quite  shamefaced  as  he  drove  back  to  the 
plantation.  When  he  emerged  from  the  lane 
which  he  had  entered  the  week  before,  and 
turned  into  the  river  road,  Lamerie,  standing 
in  the  store  door,  shouted  out: 

"He,  Ozeme!  you  had  good  times  yonda?  I 
bet  you  danced  holes  in  the  sole  of  them  new 
boots." 

"Don't  talk,  Lamerie!"  was  Ozeme's  rather 
ambiguous  reply,  as  he  flourished  the  re- 
mainder of  a  whip  over  the  old  gray  mare's 
sway-back,  urging  her  to  a  gentle  trot. 

When  he  reached  home,  Bode,  one  of  Pa- 
due's  boys,  who  was  assisting  him  to  unhitch, 
remarked: 


416  Ozeme' s  Holiday. 

"How  come  you  didn'  go  yonda  down  de 
coas'  like  you  said,  Mista  Ozeme?  Nobody 
didn'  see  you  in  Cloutierville,  an'  Mailitte 
say  you  neva  cross'  de  twenty-fo'-mile  ferry, 
an'  nobody  didn'  see  you  no  place." 

Ozeme  returned,  after  his  customary  mo- 
ment of  reflection: 

"You  see,  it's  'mos'  always  the  same  thing 
on  Cane  riva,  my  boy;  a  man  gets  tired  o' 
that  a  la  fin.  This  time  I  went  back  in  fhe 
woods,  'way  yonda  in  the  Fedeau  cut-off 
kin'  o'  campin'  an'  roughin'  like,  you  mi  ft1 
say.     I  tell  you,  it  was  sport,  Bode." 


PRESS  OF 

STBOMBERG,  AIXEN  &  CO. 

CHICAGO 


*& 


V 


JNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


!!ll!l!l 


III  Ml  II  Mil! 


IIMIMIIMII 


10000341685* 


